


And Words Are Futile Devices

by SordidDetailsFollowing



Series: Futile Devices Extended Universe [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, spideypool - Fandom
Genre: Awkward Peter Parker, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love Letters, M/M, Not an identity fic, Online Dating, Phone Sex, Self-Conscious Wade Wilson, Smut, Socially Awkward Peter, Tinder/Grindr/Hornet, Venti Green Tea Frapuccino, Wade Wilson Takes Care of Peter Parker, and Hannigram memes, lots of flirting, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SordidDetailsFollowing/pseuds/SordidDetailsFollowing
Summary: Peter doesn’t think he’s lonely. He’s too busy to be lonely. He’s twenty-two, working on his PhD and holding down a shitty job at the Daily Bugle, not to mention his nightly extra-curricular activities. He’s too busy for friends, and he’s certainly too busy for romantic interests. And yet, shockingly, apparently everyone in his life thinks he needs to stop being an anti-social recluse and get laid.So Peter enters the wide, wonderful world of online dating. He doesn’t expect to find his soul mate, or even a friend, and he’s definitely not looking for hook ups. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, really, until one Wade W. Wilson catches his eye and captures his heart with risqué dog pics and a concerning obsession with cannibalistic serial killers.This is a love story. A sweet, inevitable journey towards each other. There is humor, and melancholy, and a touch of both gravitas and levity to the weeks that trickle by. But really it’s just an account of the slow, magnetic movement of Peter towards Wade, and Wade towards Peter.Translated into:русский





	1. Like a River Flows So Surely to the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Spideypool Big Bang 2018 coordinators for hosting this incredible event! So much work went into making this happen, and I'm so glad to have been able to participate.
> 
> Art by the wonderful NanakoBlaze.
> 
> Work Title:  
> Futile Devices - Sufjan Stevens
> 
> Chapter Titles:  
> Can't Help Falling In Love - Ingrid Michaelson

 

Apparently, Peter needed more social interaction in his life.

His first clue had been the disproportionate reaction he had to a brief group project in his grant writing course. 

They only had to meet once to plan everything out, and the rest of the work could be done over Google Docs. His team members had elected to meet at a Thai restaurant near campus, ignoring Peter’s quiet suggestion of the library. He was annoyed at first, because going out to eat cost money, but even though he’d ended up splurging and spending twelve dollars on an entrée, it was kind of wonderful. The food tasted like heaven after living off ramen and cereal and coffee for weeks and his classmates had been loud and friendly after they got their work out of the way.

Peter talked more that evening than he had in a long while, and each time he opened his mouth to contribute to the conversation, he found himself shaky with exhilarating nerves and the little thrill that jumped in his stomach every time he made someone laugh. They had decided to go out for drinks after, and he’d tagged along even though he didn’t buy anything (because alcohol was ridiculously overpriced in the city). He came back to his shitty little apartment positively buzzing that night, and the adrenalin carried through his nightly patrol and kept him up afterwards, lying in bed and mentally reviewing the evening.

He’d come into the lecture portion of the course two days later pleasantly nervous to see his group members again, and had been surprisingly disappointed to find them sitting separately, spread out carelessly across the room looking at their phones and laptops just as they had every other class period of the semester. They weren’t gathered together, talking about the other night like they were suddenly best friends, and Peter silently chided himself for having such a silly idea in the first place. He’d sat down near Trenton, whom he’d talked to the most when they were at the bar and had discovered a shared love of classic sci-fi and fantasy novels, but they didn’t speak. And when class ended, it was as easy as ever to slip out amongst the stream of students without saying a word to anyone.

The days passed, and the excited hopefulness of that evening faded from memory. Communication was limited to email, and that was fine. Peter didn’t have time for anything else, anyway. His days were packed with class, homework, lab work, Daily Bugle work, and Spider-Man patrol. He could have friends when he had completed his PhD and Post Doc and found a steady job that paid enough to let him quit the Bugle and maybe sleep more than three or four hours a night. So… maybe nine or ten years? Yeah. He could have friends in ten years.

That was fine.

He’d gotten his second clue when Aunt May had suggested, entirely unprompted, that he give that ‘twig app’ a try. 

“Twig app?” He asked her with a puzzled look, failing to comprehend what in the world she could be talking about.

“Yes. That fire starter app thing that everyone talks about.” She stated as she neatly chopped vegetables for their weekly dinner. Her tone suggested that Peter should know exactly which app she meant.

“Fire starter? I don’t… Know what that is.” He turned back to the pan where he was heating oil, wondering if this was her way of hinting that Peter should do something about the unreliable heat in his apartment building. She had been pestering him since last winter to move somewhere he wouldn’t have to sleep in two sweaters and three pairs of socks whenever it got below freezing outside, but moving required money and it wasn’t really so bad as she liked to make it out to be. It was barely October now, and even in the dead of winter Peter wasn’t home all that often. Just to sleep and occasionally eat something, if he’d remembered to go to the grocery that week.

Even if he _had_ looked up space heaters online just the other day and balked at the prices before hurriedly closing the browser page, Aunt May worried too much. This fact was only further proven by her next words.

“I’m sure you do, Peter.” She was getting exasperated now, flicking a piece of zucchini skin off her knife with particular vehemence. “It’s that one where you select the photographs of people you find attractive, and then you meet up with them to have sex.”

“The one –” Peter choked on the carrot he had just popped in his mouth, and hacked it back up into his hand. “You, uh… Oh, you mean Tinder.” His face felt a little hot, and he made sure to keep facing the stove so May wouldn’t feel prompted to give him the whole ‘sex is a perfectly natural human need’ speech again.

“Yes, Tinder.” She nodded. “That’s the one.”

Peter sighed into the pan, silently asking the universe _why_ his aunt had to be concerned about whether or not he was currently getting laid. “That’s, uh… That’s okay, Aunt May. I haven’t really felt like…”

“I know, honey.” She cut him off as she carried the cutting board over to dump the vegetables into the pan. “But isn’t there one that’s just for men?” Peter coughed. “Gay men?” She clarified helpfully.

His cheeks warmed with a fresh flush. He’d come out as bi when he’d started undergrad, and then he’d started dating Gwen almost immediately after that. And after Gwen… Well, he hadn’t been doing a lot of dating since then. It wasn’t like May had been anything but effusively accepting of his preferences, but it was still a little, strange, to talk about with her. “Well, yes, but…”

“Then why don’t you give that a try? I know your date with that Johnny Storm boy didn’t go very well, but maybe –”

“Aunt May.” He turned to lean against the opposite counter since she had taken the spatula from him and seemed to be sautéing just fine on her own. He crossed his arms over his chest and moistened his lips. “I just don’t really want to have meaningless… _short-term_ interactions, you know?”

She nodded sagely. “Sex isn’t everything.” Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes towards the ceiling. “But you could just talk to people, you know. Carol says that her daughter uses the app all the time, but hasn’t met more than one or two people in person, and that was because they wanted to date. Like, regular dating, not that Netflix and hang out thing the kids like to do.”

He smiled in spite of himself, moving to nudge Aunt May with his elbow and take the spatula back. “I’ll think about it.” He conceded.

“That’s all I ask.” She patted him on the head like she’d done since he was a little boy, even though she had to lean up on her toes to kiss his cheek now. “I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

* * *

Was he? Lonely?

Peter didn’t think so. He was just too _busy_ to be lonely. He hardly had time to think about other people, let alone try to spend time with anyone. Having someone in his life, a friend or, whatever, would just be another thing to add to his laundry list of time commitments. It would be a burden, that’s what it would be. Another few hours a week that he should be spending patrolling, or taking photos for the Bugle, or working on his thesis. That was a whole class he could add to his full load at the university, so he could maybe finish a semester early. That was an hour of sleep each night, and if he lost any more of those he might literally _die_.

No. He didn’t need a friend or anyone else. Companionship just might kill him.

And it’s not like he didn’t talk to anyone at all. He proved that very point on Monday, when he went into the Daily Bugle office for his dreaded weekly meeting with J. Jonah Jameson (and no, that’s not who he meant when he checked the box for ‘social encounter’ on his mental list). He’d just finished getting yelled at for his repetitive close-ups of Spider-Man and directed to go after ‘something juicy from the Avengers, like a secret affair or superhero feud.’ He walked out into the bullpen and was flagged down by Betty.

Betty was nice. Betty sat next to the empty desk in the corner where Peter occasionally came to edit his photos when it was more convenient than going to the library. Betty was J.J.J.’s assistant, but she was hoping to get a position on the writing staff soon. Betty was also very pretty.

“Hey, Peter!” She greeted him with a smile when he’d weaved his way through the cubicles to reach her. He could smell her cherry chapstick.

“Hi, Betty. How was your weekend?” He leaned his hip against the empty desk and fidgeted with his camera case, looking at her dark, curly hair instead of her eyes. Eye contact was hard sometimes. 

“Not bad. I met my parents at Coney Island on Saturday and we did the whole carnival thing. They’d never been before, isn’t that crazy?”

Peter pushed out a laugh and wondered if it sounded as fake as it felt. “Yeah, funny. It’s practically a New York staple.”

A New York staple? What the hell was that?

“I know, right? Anyway, dealing with them is always kind of tiring, but I spent all day in bed watching Netflix yesterday, so I think I’m mostly recovered.”

His smile was a bit more genuine this time; social exhaustion was something he could actually understand. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. So, anyway. Was J. J. as much of a dick today as he was last week?”

“Not so bad, actually. Less spitting cobra, more barking dog. Though I think he did get a bit of spit on my shirt…” He looked down at himself, pinching the front of his shirt between his fingers and pulling it away from his skin a little.

Betty let out a short, loud laugh. “You’re funny.” Peter felt his cheeks get a little warm. “Hey, are you free next weekend?”

He looked up, startled into meeting her gaze. “Uh… I don’t know, why?”

She smiled kindly at him. “I have this friend I want to set you up with. She’s a senior at CUNY and she really likes science and stuff. I think she’s a chemistry major. She’s nice and I thought you two might hit it off.”

Peter blinked at her. “Oh… Um…” His stomach squirmed unpleasantly. “That’s, uh, super nice of you. But, I’m… I’m not…”

Betty’s mouth dropped open, her brown eyes widening slightly. “Oh, you’re gay!”

“Well, no, I’m not…”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “Oh my god, sorry. I shouldn’t have… Um, assumed. I mean…”

Peter shook his head a bit frantically. “No, it’s, it’s fine. I just… I’m not… I’m too _busy_ right now, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She recovered admirably, smoothing down the front of her cardigan and fixing a small, genuine smile on her mouth. “But you’re not seeing anyone?”

He shook his head, hand rising to ruffle anxiously at the back of his hair. 

She nodded in understanding, but her eyes were sad. Pitying. Peter looked down so he wouldn’t have to see them.

“Well, if you’re ever… Less busy. Let me know. Linda would like you.”

He forced a smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He turned to leave, but she caught him by the sleeve before he could go. “I just… Think you deserve someone nice, y’know? Nobody likes to be lonely.”

He didn’t quite meet her eyes, but he patted her hand. “Thanks, Betty.”

She smiled. Her smiles always looked genuine. Kind. “Have a good week, Peter.”

And that was his third clue. Hint. Anvil to the head.

Apparently everyone in his life thought he needed to get some. Did he really seem that lonely from the outside? Maybe he should have let Betty set him up. Except that he didn’t really want to date… Women. The thought of letting another girl get close to him, close enough to talk to, to laugh with, to kiss… It made him a little sick to the stomach.

Did that make him sexist? He felt sexist. He felt like a sexist pig, because it wasn’t like he wasn’t attracted to women. He was. Very much so. Had been with them almost exclusively. But since Gwen… The scent of fruit-tinged shampoo, perfume, the flash of shiny hair… It all hurt. It was the softness. The softness that just reminded him of her. 

And yes, he _knew_ it was sexist to associate softness with femininity and with being a woman. Years and years of gender politics etched into his skull. He knew it, but that didn’t stop him from having that mental block. From feeling like he might panic anytime he thought about being with a girl again.

So maybe he wasn’t ready to date. But he could… Talk? To people? To guys. Online. He could talk to guys on one of those dating apps and then maybe he’d stop feeling like everyone saw someone he didn’t know when they looked at him.

Maybe he’d stop feeling so… Alone.


	2. Oh My Darling, So It Goes

Peter had _not_ known what he was getting himself into.

On a Friday night, over his dinner of instant rice before he went out on patrol, he downloaded Grindr. 

The profile was minimal and easy to make. He used an old picture of himself from one of his undergraduate photography classes, an outdoor shot with the sun making his hair look a little nicer than usual. It had been a partner project, and whatever student he’d been paired with had done a nice job of catching him when he was smiling, leaning up against a tree while he looked down at his own camera. He included a few notes about liking photography, sci-fi and art films, and entered his physical details with a wrinkled nose. When he boiled it all down, he looked like an extremely unoriginal hipster. Too bad he couldn’t put up a picture of Spider-Man and talk about his web-slinging skills. 

He closed the app without looking any further and went out on his patrol.

He stopped a mugging, interrupted two robberies, broke up a nasty domestic assault, and assisted the victims of a three-car collision on the Brooklyn bridge. When he got home, he had forty-three unread message notifications on Grindr.

He opened the app with a confused frown, baffled as to how he had so many people trying to talk to him already. Surely they weren’t all actually interested in him? He navigated to his messages and scrolled through.

**Hey babe whatcha doin 2nite?**

**dammnnnnn your fuckin cute**

**Hi there :) how’re you tonight?**

**What’s a pretty little boy like you doing out on the town at midnight? If you were mine I’d keep you inside. Preferably tied up nice and tight.**

**hot little twink bet you gotta nice piece of ass. you lookin for a daddy tonite?**

**hi**

**hy bb wanna come over 2 ym place? i got vodka**

**You’re really cute. Could I take you out for dinner or drinks?**

**mm dat face… bet you look real good with my dick in ur mouth**

**this looks fake. pics?**

**You are too fucking tempting, I just want to bite those pretty lips.**

**looking for a bear or a daddy? i can be both ;)**

Peter dropped the phone on his bedside table. Upside down.

His cheeks were hot. Some of the messages had picture attachments. He adamantly insisted that he did not want to open any of them. He did anyway.

There were… some dicks. Those were definitely dick pics. Could people really just send you dick pics on here? He closed the app after looking through the rest of the messages with a red face and mortifying swell of interest in his crotch area. 

It was all so… Dirty. Impersonal. Was everyone just interested in having quick, filthy sex without knowing anything about each other? Apparently. He probably should have known, given the general reputation of the app. But he hadn’t quite expected it to be so… Blatant.

Briefly, with a wildly exhilarating rush of sordid arousal, he imagined doing it. Responding to one of those propositions and meeting somewhere anonymous… A car maybe. Or the other guy’s place. They wouldn’t even talk. They’d just take their clothes off and fuck. Hard.

He bit down on his bottom lip at the thought, pressing the heel of his hand into the hard line of his cock trapped in his suit.

Maybe it made sense. If he just hooked up, never let anyone get to know him, he wouldn’t have to deal with the social obligations. Or keeping a secret as massive as his alter ego from someone who was supposed to mean something to him.

But even though the thought excited him, he knew he wouldn’t ever go through with it. He got attached too easily. Craved emotional contact more than physical. He knew himself well enough to recognize that he would just fuck himself up if he tried it. 

Peter sighed at his stubbornly hard dick and deleted the app, then got up to change into his pajamas and get ready for bed. He meant to take care of his neglected erection when he finally climbed between the sheets at four in the morning, but he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, exhaustion weighing down on his bones and his eyelids.

* * *

Peter didn’t think about his failed Grindr experiment (much) for the rest of the weekend. He did classwork, and guiltily followed Tony Stark around until he could snap a nice picture of he and his fiancé Pepper going into a restaurant. He did laundry, and worked in the university lab, prepping assays for a pilot study he needed to complete before the end of the semester. He patrolled for a solid twelve and a half hours over Saturday and Sunday. Saturday nights were usually the busiest, so he always stayed out from nine to five (just like a regular workday only… Not). 

Monday night he finally found an hour to sit down and eat something, watching a show on Netflix. He had a frozen pizza, which was pretty much splurging for Peter Parker, and clicked through old Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes. It was nice, to let his brain and body rest for a little while, but somewhere between Spike and Buffy love-fighting and Willow learning the joys of witchcraft and lesbianism, Peter found himself thinking about Betty’s friend Linda.

Was she disappointed that he hadn’t been interested? Probably not. She didn’t even know him. But was she lonely? Did she need someone to talk to as much as he did? Surely not. She had Betty as her friend, and Betty was very supportive. 

Why hadn’t he ever thought about asking Betty out? Well, they worked together for one. And to be honest, he’d never really been that interested. He had noticed that she was attractive, and nice, and kind of funny on a good day, and he got warm and embarrassed when she complimented him. But he’d never once had the desire to have anything more with her. Was he just incapable of wanting that? It had been two years since Gwen, but maybe that wasn’t enough time.

No, it’s not like he wasn’t interested in _anyone_. There had been Johnny Storm, the wildly flirtatious actor he’d photographed for an event. They had technically been working together, and he really wasn’t the type of person Peter was usually drawn to. And yet he’d still found himself blushing and batting his eyes at the arrogant man. There was just something about the way he moved, and the way he looked at Peter, and the warmth in his fingertips when he brushed Peter’s hand at the bar.

They’d ended up making out in the hotel bathroom for a stupidly hot five minutes before being interrupted by an older gentleman looking to use the stall. Peter was mortified after that, and their one and only date the next week didn’t exactly go very well. Which was perfectly fine. Johnny was much less charming and much more conceited in the light of day, but still. Peter _had_ experienced that spark of interest. That desire to get closer to someone. It was still there. Just… Muted.

He shut his laptop on another apocalypse scene and researched gay dating apps on his phone for the next half hour.

He ended up downloading one called Hornet. It wasn’t the most popular or widely used, but maybe that was a good thing. It seemed to be more focused on social networking and sharing LGBTQ+ community information than on finding people to hook up with. It was still a dating app, with pictures and profiles, but it was a little more in depth. 

He added a couple of more recent photos this time, since apparently his older picture had made it look like he was a ‘pretty young thing.’ He didn’t look much more mature in his newer photos, but his hair was a little longer now, and his clothes were a little plainer. Maybe it would make a difference, maybe not. He just didn’t want to mislead people about who he was. He typed in a lot more about his interests and how he spent his time (all except for the illegal vigilantism of course), his likes and dislikes. 

He tentatively tapped through some of the guys in his area, following a few profiles that looked interesting, then closed the app and went out on patrol, trying not to worry too much about it. He got a couple of notifications for follows and likes on his photos before he went to bed that night, but it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as his response on Grindr had been. So far, so good.

* * *

Peter chatted with a few guys over the course of the week. At first it was exhilarating. Every guy he responded to was cute and had compelling interests of some sort, even if their conversation skills were limited and grammar perhaps… Lacking. But those things didn’t matter when every message he received made his heart beat a little faster. 

But as the days tickled by, his excitement about the connections he’d made started to dwindle. There were only so many ways he could answer variations of the question ‘how are you today?’ And everyone liked music but listing his favorite bands for the tenth time was starting to get old. No one in particular really sparked his interest, and when he tried pushing conversations towards topics he found more engaging, the responses were a bit lackluster. 

The best part about the app was that it had a whole section devoted to articles. If Peter was being honest, he spent a majority of his time on the platform reading about current LGBTQ+ topics than actually talking to people or looking at their profiles. 

It was Saturday afternoon when Peter discovered that he could see who had liked his photos on Hornet. He was briefly idling at the university, slumped in a hallway armchair while he waited for a study group to finish up in the lab. He kicked his legs up over one of the arms and scrolled through the surprisingly long list of names. Most of them were people who had messaged him already, or otherwise they just liked his main profile picture as they passed through. But as he worked his way through each photo, he noticed someone. 

A ‘Wade W. Wilson” had followed him and liked every single one of his photos. 

He clicked on Wade’s profile and scanned through it. His interests included tacos, chimichangas, something called katanas (next to an emoji of that ninja girl with her arms crossed in front of her face), Golden Girls, Celine Dion, Poison, George Michael, David Bowie, NBC’s Hannibal, and unicorns (next to the obligatory unicorn and rainbow emojis). He had several pictures, though most of them appeared to be random dogs he took photos of in Central Park. One was a (quite adorably funny) Hannigram meme and one was a picture of Wade.

He sat in the foreground of what looked like an outdoor market of some sort, clearly not in the United States (or at least not anywhere in the United States that Peter had been). It was sunny and he had a red baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, his head tilted down and to the side so most of his face was cast in shadow. His smile stood out wide and white and glittering, really fucking gorgeous, and he had a ridiculously tight shirt stretched over his shoulders and bulging biceps. 

Peter found himself staring for an inordinately long amount of time, eyes running over the most attention-grabbing areas of the photo and bottom lip caught wantonly between his teeth. 

This guy was… Hot. Peter could only see down to his elbows, but he was like, _very_ well endowed. And some of the other guys he’d messaged on Hornet had been well-built, showing off their muscles in gym selfies of questionable taste, but none of them had worn it quite as well, somehow. Wade wasn’t flashing his guns in a brightly colored tank top or lifting something heavy just to show that he could. He wasn’t even showing skin. He was just… Sitting there. Looking goddamn beautiful.

He knew he should hold onto this feeling, this excited, pleasant stirring behind his ribs. Because as soon as he tried to talk to this guy, he was sure to be disappointed. He would be boring. Or aloof. Or he’d want to meet and hook up this weekend. Or he’d be great. He’d be funny and nice and interesting, and they would have amazing conversations for a week or two, and then one or both of them would start to get bored, and it would all just fizzle out into nothing because Peter didn’t actually intend to _date_ anyone.

So this was all just futile, wasn’t it? 

And now Peter was staring at Wade’s picture with a depressed, pining pout on his face like a stupid little boy. He sighed at himself and tapped a quick like on the photo (and the Hannigram meme), and navigated into the message screen. Before he could get nervous and talk himself out of it, because he’d never actually been the one to initiate first contact before, he typed out a quick message and pressed send.

**Hey :) Are you a dog dad or just a member of the puparazzi?**

Oh god. Peter rolled his eyes at himself and dropped his phone face down on his stomach in mortification. Why did he ever think he was clever? Clearly, his poorly executed comedy routine as Spider-Man was falsely going to his head. He’d always thought the criminals didn’t laugh at his puns because they _hated_ him with a fiery passion or something. But really, all this time, he’d just been a failure. He wasn’t funny in the least.

He tipped his head back and ran his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the embarrassment of that ridiculous message. Wade would probably take one look at it and write Peter off as one of those dorks who tries way too hard. Which he was. Obviously. Well, it wasn’t much of a loss, really. Wade hadn’t messaged him in the first place, even though he’d clearly taken the time to go through Peter’s profile, which probably meant he wasn’t interested. Problem solved.

A sudden buzzing over his belly button made Peter startle, jostling the phone so it started to slide off the fabric of his sweatshirt. He caught it onehanded as it careened towards the floor, quickly unlocking it and holding the screen up to his face. His eyes widened at the sight of Wade’s name and photo next to an unread message in his mailbox, and the phone vibrated again in his hand as he stared. He tapped the messages open, buzzing with an anticipatory thrill.

**_FUCK no baby I couldn’t be a dad if my life depended on it. I mean, someone else’s life would depend on it, and I would kill them. Totally dead. 100%_ **

**_nope. Card carrying member of the puparazzi over here. I’m quite good u know. Didn’t u see my spread in Canine Vogue? New Barker? CNN (canine nightly news)? I got a whole portfolio if u wanna check the quality of my work_ **

Peter snorted into his sleeve, hiding his stupid grin in his elbow. He could feel his pulse racing, the edges of his teeth tingling with excitement, and found himself typing out a response before he could think too hard about it.

**We should trade portfolios, then. I’ve got a selection from the newspaper I work for as well as my own pieces, but mine are strictly of the human and landscape variety, so I’m sure you’ll have the upper hand.**

He watched with lower lip clamped securely between his teeth as Wade typed (the little ellipses hovering over the spot where his message would appear). 

**_Damn boy you asking for pics already? Well… alright. I’m not shy. we can do nudes._ **

Peter’s jaw dropped in surprise, his face flushing with chagrin. That was so very much not what he’d meant. He was simultaneously very disappointed and undeniably curious to see all of that hard muscle uncovered. 

A picture popped up, and he almost flinched away from it, only to register a moment later that it was not a nude photo of Wade W. Wilson. It was a pretty black and white pit bull sprawled out on her back in the grass, baring her pink stomach to the camera. 

He chuckled in relief, a bit embarrassed by his own assumptions. 

**_Arf. but so you do photography professionally? That’s sick. I thought that cool camera looked like the real deal._**.

Smiling and inexplicably pleased, Peter navigated back to his own photos and took another look at his undergraduate photography class portrait. He did look pretty young, leaning against the trunk of the tree with dappled light falling across his face and arms. The camera he held then was the same one he still used; an early 2000’s DSLR his Uncle Ben had gotten him for Christmas one year. It was chunky and much older looking than any of the current editions, but it was still high quality and got the job done. Peter preferred its simpler interface anyway, and he didn’t sacrifice any important capabilities by using it. 

He moved back into his messages and started typing a response.

“Hey Peter, were you waiting for the lab?”

He glanced up, startled enough to start blushing and tucking his phone guiltily into his hoodie pocket. It was only Carol, a girl he knew from the summer bio class he’d TA-ed before starting his PhD. He thought she was probably a senior this year.

“Uh, yeah. Yes, I was. Thanks.”

He swung his feet to the ground and stood up, awkwardly slinging his backpack over one shoulder. She just smiled at him, tucking a strand of died purple hair behind one ear. 

“Okay, well… We’re done for the day. Good luck in there.”

He smiled and nodded, hoping that was a socially acceptable response. He almost spat out something manic and dumb, like ‘luck is for pussies,’ but stopped himself at the last moment.

Whatever he did with his face seemed to be sufficient, and Carol walked away without adding anything further. Peter blew out an exasperated breath as she went and used his keys to let himself into the lab, mind already turning towards the equations he would need for the assays he planned on running this weekend.

* * *

Peter worked for a few hours, losing track of time to the calming monotony of procedure, and he was only notified of the late hour when his stomach grumbled angrily at him around nine p.m. Cursing to himself, because he was already late for his self-imposed patrol start time, he packed up his things, cleaned the lab, and practically sprinted to the train. 

He wished he could just get right to it, but his suit was at home and his laptop was in his backpack. He wasn’t about to risk his computer, old as it may be, by webbing it up somewhere in the city while he patrolled. Not after his last two backpacks had been cut free and stolen. And seriously, who was doing that? Who the fuck was finding their way to great heights and using specialty blades to cut his shit down and take his bag full of dirty clothes and maybe a library book? Fucking weird, is what it was.

Anyway. He booked it home as fast as the subway could go on a Saturday night, changed into his suit, stuffed some saltine crackers in his mouth, and climbed out the window to save kittens from trees and take pictures with cute kids.

Nah. There weren’t any kittens or kids, although he did get stopped for a photo near Times Square. The rest of his night was chalk full of good old-fashioned violence and human depravity. Five a.m. found him swinging back towards his apartment building in the predawn navy blue, richer by a few more bruises and a sprained wrist from awkwardly stopping a car before it could careen off the road when the driver decided to retrieve something from the floor of said vehicle while hurtling forward at nearly fifty miles per hour. So, business as usual in the sleepy little town of New York. 

He collapsed into his bed without removing more than his mask and slept until nine in the morning. Then he was late for his self-imposed Stalking The Avengers shift. Clint went jogging through the park late on Sunday mornings, and last weekend Peter had snagged a photo of him tripping over a rock and startling a group of soccer moms doing yoga on the grass. 

He couldn’t miss Sundays.

He propelled himself through a short, lukewarm shower on nothing but the fumes of a granola bar he found in the back of his cupboard, and then he was out the door again, camera strung around his neck. 

He climbed a tree on Clint’s jogging route in the park like the pro stalker that he was and was rewarded with a flattering series of shots of the Avenger kneeling to pet a labradoodle and getting mobbed by about six other dogs. Jameson wouldn’t be happy with him, but he’d get printed in the arts and culture section and a paycheck was a paycheck. 

Then Peter dragged himself to the library to do all of his homework before Monday’s lecture, and while he was there he managed to make significant progress on some background research for thesis topics he was considering. 

He didn’t remember the gorgeous guy he’d been messaging on Hornet until he was bent over his kitchen counter choking himself on ramen noodles that evening.

“Fuck.” He muttered around his burnt tongue, digging his phone out of his pocket. It was dead, of course, because he hadn’t remembered to charge it last night, so he spent the next three minutes digging around the apartment for the charger that _wasn’t_ broken before he found it in his bathroom cupboard. (Why?)

Then he plugged the damn thing into the socket above the kitchen counter and went back to his dinner, which he liked to think was actual noodle soup when it was really just boiled water and chemical dust pretending to be protein-rich broth. The excessive salt content helped with the illusion.

His phone took forever to turn on, because it was old and had one (or two or three) too many updates crammed onto it, and when it did he had two messages from Aunt May and one from the bank. He wished the bank wouldn’t text him. It felt like a trap. Like they were pretending to be his friend when really they were just going to insult him and take his money.

He replied to Aunt May and quickly opened Hornet, leaning against the counter and doing his best to chew through his bottom lip. He quickly navigated to his messages with Wade W. Wilson, and breathed a sigh to see that there was nothing new since Wade asked him about being a professional photographer. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved that he hadn’t annoyed Wade with his lack of response, or if he was disappointed the guy clearly didn’t care enough to try to pursue the conversation. 

Either way, he might as well respond now. Wade was…funny. And witty. Enough to leave Peter feeling a little more hooked than he had with any of the other people he’d messaged. It made him want to be clever and funny and interesting, too. If such an impressive fete of deception could ever be accomplished.

He typed out an answer to Wade’s question and sent it immediately, not wanting to wait any longer and increase his rudeness.

**Yeah, I work for a newspaper. It’s a shitty job but I do like using my camera. And it’s just part time, I’m also in school.**

Oh. Fuck. That wasn’t clever, or funny, or remotely interesting. And he was rude for taking so long to message him back. He should at least apologize.

**Sorry for the slow response, by the way. I just got busy.**

And now he sounded clingy and insecure. And also full of himself. Like what, he thought Wade was just waiting around for his messages? God. He should add something at least a little witty, maybe.

**Your nudes didn’t scare me off. Don’t worry ;)**

Well. That was a thing. That he’d said. Fuck. He was clearly trying _way_ too fucking hard. How had he managed to crash and burn in less than five minutes? It must be a new world record. For idiocy, or something.

He set the phone down and groaned into his hands, lamenting his eternal social awkwardness. Only a few seconds later, when he was setting his empty bowl in the sink, his phone buzzed against the linoleum with a loud clatter that nearly made him break the bowl and the sink.

He wiped his hands on his pants and reached for the noisy device, taken quite by surprise to see the Hornet notification on his lock screen. He opened it, curious about how Wade might tell him he was a complete dork and they should never speak again in a clever, funny, interesting way.

**_well that’s a relief. I thought you might be scandalized by my nip slip_ **

**_now I can send more, cause these puppies canNOT be contained ;))))_ **

**_you a senior somewhere? Whatre you studying?_ **

**_no wait I’ll guess…… art. Or art history. Or creative writing! I bet you write a lotta hot fanfic online ;)_ **

Peter let out a startled, lightly delighted laugh at the rapid flood of messages, another one coming through even as he read.

**_also dude its fine, I assume you have a life outside of obscure dating appps_ **

Yeah right. What a cute idea, Peter Parker having a life.

He was typing out a response before he could think about it, leaning one hip against the counter as he stared down at the screen.

**What’s a life?**

**Just kidding. I’m actually in my first year of a PhD program, and as much as I wish I was writing Hannigram AU’s online, I’m just studying biochemical engineering.**

He hesitated a moment, chewing absently on his bottom lip, before typing out one more message and sending it before he could chicken out.

**Also… I think I’d like seeing more of your puppies…**

Oh god. Was this flirting? Was he flirting? It seemed much less intimidating over text, but he was probably managing to make a fool of himself anyway. Like, puppies? What the fuck was he saying? He was clearly taking the metaphor way too far.

**_HOT DAMN I don’t know where to start. uh, I will send you puppy pics any time you like baby. Here, have one now pleasse:_ **

This was followed by a photo of a gorgeous, grinning husky panting underneath a tree.

**_and a phd? In BIOCHEMICAL ENGINEERING? fuck you must be smart as hell. I mean, I have a phd too but ive had that since i was like fifteen._ **

**_pretty… huge…. dick 8=======D_ **

Peter snorted out a laugh, raising one hand to half-cover his face as he bent against the counter and tried not to find the middle school pun far more hilarious than it deserved.

**_and lastly Hannibal and will’s love is eternal and beautiful and they are a shining example of true, perfect romance. Their love is real. REAL. somewhere out there is a cannibalistic serial killer nad a hot mess fbi agent in LOVE. you cannot convince me otherwise._ **

Peter’s face hurt, and it took him a while to realize that he was grinning hard enough to strain his under-used cheek muscles. 

**I wouldn’t dream of trying. They are clearly an example to us all.**

**And thanks, but it’s not all that impressive. I’m just kind of a nerd. What do you do?**

**Also, I like that pup pic. Very adorable.**

He wasn’t sure how to gracefully continue appreciating the good dog pics while also subtly suggesting that he kind of _did_ want a picture or two of Wade himself, so he just left it at that.

**_Damn strait. But no babe, you gotta know that’s hella impressive for a 22 yr old who ALSO works a real live, actual skill-involving job too. and studies a subject that most people couldn’t tell you one single thing about. like fuck, that’s some child prodigy x-games mode shit right there_ **

Peter felt his cheeks growing embarrassingly warm as he read through the unnecessary praise, and he kept his free hand tucked over the stupid grin still plastered to his face, feeling like a bit of a fool for the squirming, pleased feeling in his stomach.

**_I work in security. private contracting_ **

Peter hummed to himself as he considered that, wondering if that was why Wade was so clearly buff and fit with arms like, ugh… And shoulders like… Some… Greek god or something. Fuck. 

**haha thanks. Security seems interesting, too. Do you get to be a bodyguard for rich and famous people?**

There were plenty of those to go around in New York City.

**_not exactly. more like…. Covert operations sorta stuff_ **

Huh. Now _that_ was certainly interesting. Before he could ask any more questions, another message buzzed through.

**_so tell me what a smart, busy, gorgeous guy like you is looking for on an app like this?_ **

And now Peter was blushing again. And grinning. Like an idiot.

**I don’t really have expectations honestly. Just wanted to talk to people, I guess.**

He was a little surprised by his own honesty, but it wasn’t like he had any reason to lie or obfuscate. In fact, it was probably in everyone’s best interest if he was as up-front as possible right from the beginning.

**I’m not really looking for hookups though. I tried grindr for like a night and that was… Something.**

His gut clenched with a little pulse of anxiety as he briefly wondered if Wade would lose all interest now that Peter admitted to not wanting to meet up and bang. Not… That he would mind… With Wade. But no, meaningless sex would just fuck him up and make everything messy. He couldn’t deal with messy. So it was better, actually. Better if Wade dropped this quaint little conversation before it developed into… A… Longer, conversation.

**_HA. Yeah I can just imagine you on grindr baby boy, damn. lucky you survived the night._ **

Peter bit his lip against the little flush of heat provoked by the casual pet name.

**_but no I feel you. I’m not lookin to meet up with anyone either, just want someone to talk to, too. Don’t we all, huh?_ **

His smile turned gentler at that, pleased by the mutual understanding and luck that they seemed to be on the same page. 

**Yeah, I guess we do.**

**And how’s it working out for you so far?**

Peter straightened, pushing off the edge of the counter to stretch one arm over his head and work the kink out of his spine as he continued to hold his phone in front of his face. The shift brought his microwave clock into sight, and he glanced up at it only to grimace at the time.

How the hell had almost an hour slipped by while he ate his meager dinner? It was almost eleven, and he still had to squeeze in a quick patrol before grabbing some sleep and getting up early for his morning class.

 ** _Much better tonight.._**

Peter allowed himself a chuckle, unplugging his phone and typing as he walked to his bed where his suit lay tangled somewhere in the sheets.

**For me, too.**

**Hey, I have to get up early tomorrow for a class so I think I’m actually gonna call it a night and try to go to bed.**

**_arighty then, night! hopefully I can snag some more of your precious time tomorrow_ **

Wade responded quickly, and Peter was glad to manage a quick goodbye before tossing his phone on his pillow and stripping to don his suit.

**I’ll try to work you into my schedule ;) Goodnight, Wade.**

He kicked his dirty clothes into the growing pile in the corner (which wasn’t going to get any smaller until he managed to scrounge up some quarters for the laundromat down the street) and yanked on the pieces of his suit until all that was left was to slip his mask on and head out the window. He paused for just long enough to check his phone again, following his impulse to see if there was one more message waiting.

There was.

**_Sweet dreams, Peter._ **

Peter couldn’t stop smiling the entire three hours he patrolled.


	3. Some Things Are Meant to Be

Peter messaged Wade almost nonstop for the next two weeks.

He learned a lot about the man, and received _many_ adorable dog pictures. So many, in fact, that he had to start downloading photos from his phone so he would have room to save his favorites. Wade didn’t seem at all shy about sharing his quirks and interests, and Peter soon learned that he was absolutely obsessed with the Golden Girls, Bea Arthur in particular, he loved 80’s and 90’s cult films, had an affinity for memes and unicorns, and he watched a lot of porn.

A. Lot. Of porn. 

Peter shied away from those conversations a bit. Not because he was a prude (no matter what Aunt May thought), but because he was afraid to wander too far into the territory of sex with someone who flirted with him constantly, who he was _very_ attracted to, and who would probably say yes if Peter asked him to hook up. And asking to hook up would be a very, very Bad Idea no matter what Peter’s dick had to say on the matter.

Wade seemed to pick up on the signals pretty quickly, and the porn/sex talk was dialed back over the first week or so. Peter wasn’t disappointed, per se, but he did hope it wouldn’t cause Wade to start holding back on other things, too. He liked their conversations, wacky and wildly inappropriate as they may sometimes be.

They discussed Netflix favorites, among other topics, and spent an entire evening gleefully lauding the masterpiece that is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Peter admitted his embarrassing crush on the punk-rock vampire Spike, and Wade allowed that he deeply identified with troubled slayer Faith, but his favorite character was shy lesbian witch Tara. He also had some choice (colorful) words for Joss Whedon regarding Tara’s unfortunate end.

Their talks about music were more interesting than any others Peter had had, and although their tastes didn’t exactly match up, Peter could definitely respect Wade’s love for 80’s pop ballads, 90’s rock anthems, classic rap and emo pop punk of the early 2000’s. It was an interesting, eclectic mix, with very little of the most recent releases included.

It really wasn’t the typical music library of someone their age, but Peter’s tastes didn’t exactly line up with the top 40 charts, either. And Wade _was_ a bit older than him. Thirty-one, according to his profile. Peter did wonder if the age difference would be a little weird, but it didn’t seem to matter when talking to Wade was the easiest, most enjoyable social interaction he’d had in… Well, since Gwen. And it’s not like he planned on meeting the guy, so it was a moot point when all they were doing was having conversations on a dating app.

Peter liked talking to Wade.

Wade made him smile. And laugh. Like a dope, admittedly, staring down at his phone with a grin on his face whether he was at home or in public. It was a little ridiculous. And addictive. Enough so that Peter was started to lag behind.

He was nearly late for class one day, he was falling behind schedule in his lab work, and his weekly offering of hero-watch photographs was so meager that his latest meeting with J. Jonah James very nearly came to blows and most certainly _did_ involve throwing things. Namely a stapler. It was only thanks to Peter’s fast reflexes that he didn’t have a stapler-shaped bruise on one of his cheeks.

And cellular data was becoming an issue. To be precise, Peter was using too much of it messaging Wade on the go, and the spotty stolen wifi in his apartment was unreliable enough that sometimes it cut out and he ended up on the network unintentionally. For fear of the heart attack he may very well have upon receiving his next cell service bill, Peter changed his settings so that he would no longer receive message notifications when Hornet wasn’t open, and so that he wouldn’t automatically be logged in, but would need to enter his name and password each time he opened the app. This was meant to encourage him to only use the app when he was connected to wifi somewhere, and it was definitely annoying as fuck, but necessary to keep Peter’s wallet from crying.

He ended up accessing his account more often on his laptop internet browser, since he was usually using his computer when connected to wifi anyhow. It was an added bonus that he typed faster on a laptop keyboard, saving him approximately 4.5 seconds per message. He’d calculated it. And if he messaged Wade around 40 times per day, as was his average, then he was saving himself three minutes every day. Of course, it took him more than three minutes for him to work all that out, so he wasn’t reaping the benefits quite yet. But it would add up eventually. Especially since his interest in Wade didn’t seem to be waning over time.

It was almost concerning, how much space Wade suddenly occupied in his thoughts. No other guy on Hornet had held his attention this long, or seemed nearly as interested in talking to _him_ as Wade was. In fact, Wade was the only person he’d been messaging for at least a week now. The last conversationalist he’d bothered trying to engage with had lost interest once Peter had devolved to meaningless ‘and how was your day?’ questions since they had nothing else to talk about. A nagging anxiety tugged at the edges of Peter’s mind, whispering with its doubt-filled voice that he didn’t have time for this sort of thing. He was compromising his work and his school and his future because he was growing far too attached and perhaps even a touch obsessed with some guy with a pretty grin and infectious personality.

But then he reminded himself, often and loudly, that the whole point of doing this in the first place was to have someone to talk to, and so there wasn’t really any point if he didn’t actually _talk_ to him. Wade made him feel less like the lonely, socially-inept nerd that everyone else seemed to think he was. So, who cared if he missed another hour of sleep or skipped one or two more meals so he could complete all of his assignments. He could… Just… Deal.

But logging into the app dozens of times each day was starting to get seriously bothersome, as was switching browser pages constantly back and forth while he tried to do other things on his computer, only to get sidetracked by snorts of laughter at one of Wade’s jokes or wild comments and completely lose his train of thought. The constant stream of messages (because Wade rarely took very long to reply to him) was distracting as fuck, and made Peter wonder how his peers managed to get _anything_ done if they were all being this social all the time.

If something didn’t give, Peter’s health was going to suffer. Or worse, his grades. Because he couldn’t lose his job when he needed the money, and he would not compromise on his responsibilities as Spider-Man. So he tried to think of an easier method for he and Wade to keep up their entertaining chats, and decided to ask Wade if he’d like to email him instead. He had to check his email often for school, and they might be encouraged to write fewer, longer messages this way. It was worth a try, and Wade’s reaction to the suggestion seemed pretty enthusiastic.

**_ooooh like snail mail for the digital age baby boy? what a great idea. I’ve always wanted a penpal, and thisll give me a chance to beef up on my love-letter penmanship. besides, you’re the only reason I get on this app anymore anyway_ **

Although it probably shouldn’t, the admission that Peter was the only person Wade spoke to on Hornet made something pleased and warm settle into his gut, and he couldn’t stop smiling for the entire subsequent afternoon.

He expected Wade to email him right away, but he received nothing for the rest of the day. No more messages on Hornet, either, though he checked several times. It wasn’t until late that night, after a tiring, violent patrol through Manhattan, that he returned to find an email waiting in his inbox from WadeWilsonMWAM@gmail.com. He threw himself down on his bed, still wrapped in his slightly bloodied suit, and eagerly clicked it open.

 

_Dear Peter,_

_I apologize for the lateness of my correspondence, but I found it much more difficult to find the words I desired when the medium seemed to require more delicacy, more precision in order to convey my thoughts and feelings how I want you to understand them. I hope that you’re sleeping by now, as it is already an early hour as opposed to a late one, in which case I suppose I should wish you a good morning._

_I think you should know that I’ve found myself driven to distraction by our conversations, as it seems you are as well since you’ve mentioned that your work has suffered somewhat thanks to my endlessly running mouth (or rather, typing fingers). I do hope you don’t resent the diversion, although I feel bad that you may be missing school work or other important things because of me. Actually, that’s a lie. I should feel bad, but I’m far too pleased that you seem to enjoy talking with me as much as I enjoy talking with you. I find it rather amazing that you don’t think my excessive immature jokes or obscure references are annoying. (At least, it doesn’t seem like you do. If you do find me annoying, just lie about it, alright? My feelings are delicate creatures, easily wounded.)_

_It’s a frivolous and cheesy turn of phrase to claim that we are “on the same wavelength,” but I do feel it to be true in our case. It’s rare enough to find someone who tolerates my particular brand of conversation, let alone someone who keeps up with me word for word, and I felt you should know how significant that is to me._

_And now that I’ve thoroughly unsettled you with effusive and overly-sentimental revelations, I’ll cut myself off and bid you goodnight, good morning, sweet dreams or good day. I hope your presentation for that statistical modeling class goes well, and please don’t forget to eat lunch. I was concerned when you mentioned that you skip the meal most days. Growing boys need to eat, no matter if you’re twenty-two or an old dog like me._

_Sincerely,  
Wade W. Wilson_

 

Peter read the email three times over, his jaw hanging open wide enough to catch flies (if he had any food in the apartment to attract them in the first place). 

This was… Wow. Just. Wow.

It didn’t read like Wade. Only, on second glance (and third, and fourth), it kind of did. His voice was still there, under the semi-regency-era language and flowery vocabulary. Don’t ask Peter why the hell he thought he knew what Wade’s voice sounded like, because he just did. He heard it in his mind when he read Wade’s words on the screen, heard the inflection when he told a joke, heard the smile around his phrases. It was a complete figment of his imagination, of course, and probably completely inaccurate, but it seemed to fit him somehow. And it surprisingly didn’t take much adjustment to hear this new language in the voice Peter had conjured for Wade W. Wilson.

After getting over his initial surprise at the complete shift in tone, Peter felt the meaning behind Wade’s letter like a punch in the gut. Only… More fluffy and squirmy and less painful than a real punch in the gut. 

Wade liked him.

Wade _liked_ him. Like, liked-liked him. To move past Peter’s propensity for middle-school platitudes, Wade had feelings for him. Good, quite possibly romantic feelings for him. He liked talking to Peter, was just as obsessed with their conversations, and even worried about Peter eating (which he admittedly did not do enough of). It was… really nice. And kind of embarrassing. And a little hot.

Okay, a lot hot.

Hot enough that Peter sat up in bed for the next half hour, half hard with his legs tucked up in front of him, chewing on his bottom lip and alternating between rereading the email and staring dazedly at the screen while he fantasized about Wade’s large, warm presence in his bed.

Just, you know. Sitting there with him. Maybe cuddling. Maybe kissing. Nothing too crazy, but enough for Peter’s touch-starved body to be able to get off on thoughts of that alone. Unfortunately, he was too physically tired and admittedly sore from a few clumsy fights to do anything about that tonight, even if he wanted to. Even if he couldn’t stop thinking about it until he fell into sleep, tangled in his sheets with the laptop resting a few inches from his drooling face.

Wade’s email was the first thought in his mind when he jerked awake the next morning, alarm buzzing painfully in his sensitive ears. He wanted to write back right away, but he would be late to a TA meeting if he didn’t catch the train in twenty minutes, so he settled for reading it three more times before his rushed shower.

The meeting flowed into class, followed shortly by a shift in the lab, and it was four in the afternoon by the time he had a break to sit down in the science library with his laptop.

He pulled up his email immediately, not even pretending that he could concentrate on school work before formulating a response to Wade. He read the email again, the words already familiar enough to be half-memorized, and a stifled grin made his lips twitch. He set his fingers to the keys and took a breath, heart beat speeding more than a little bit as he tried to find the words to match this jittery, joyful feeling that was settling in his stomach.

 

_Dear Wade,_

_Thank you so very much for your letter. It was lovely. Unexpected, but lovely. And I think you should know that I agree completely. I feel like we’re on the same wavelength, too, for lack of a better turn of phrase. I haven’t enjoyed talking to anyone as much as I enjoy talking to you, not in a long, long time. (To be entirely honest, I don’t really talk to anyone very much. But you shouldn’t take that to mean I only appreciate our conversations for being one of my sole sources of social interaction. On the contrary, I feel that my usual isolation only makes the connection I’ve formed with you all the more special.)_

_I like your particular brand of conversation. And I most certainly do not find you annoying. And I’m not just saying that to spare your feelings, delicate creatures that they may be. You make me laugh. And smile. An embarrassing amount of smiling, actually. I’m fairly sure Mrs. Wendell, the librarian, might think there’s something wrong with me because I’m always grinning at my computer screen._

_My presentation did go well, thank you. I think I put half the room to sleep, including the professor, so I ought to earn a few extra-credit points for that. And I’ll have you know that I did eat lunch today. I managed to find an old granola bar in my backpack, which I only looked for in the first place because you told me that I should eat sometime in the afternoon. So, thank you for that._

_And I can’t imagine you’re all that old of a dog… After all, the countless selfies you’ve sent me have all been stunning examples of a canine in the prime of youth. (You are thirty-one, right? That’s what your profile says. Not that it really matters to me, anyhow.)_

_What about you? Do you eat three square meals a day, adhering to a balanced diet of fruits, vegetables, grains and organically sourced animal products? In fact, I feel obliged to ask, “what about you” in a much more general sense, as well. I know how you spend a lot of your time; playing video games, watching Golden Girls, and stalking dogs in the park. But I don’t really know what you do, except that you once mentioned working in security. What do you wish you did?_

_I find myself curious for any scrap of information about you, but please do let me know if my questions overstep any sort of boundaries. I know we’re just talking. Don’t feel obligated to answer any of my intrusive queries. Don’t feel obligated to do anything, really. I just find you interesting._

_I look forward to receiving your reply, Wade Wilson._

_Sincerely,_

_Peter B. Parker_

 

Peter felt a little flutter of insecurity at being so flowery and pretentious with his writing, afraid that it would come off as silly and unnecessary, but he wanted to match Wade’s level of formality, effort, and sincerity. And it was kind of fun, writing as if he were putting pen to paper as opposed to the more informal (or dreadfully boring) way he usually emailed. He thought Wade would appreciate it. And it was hard to be truly embarrassed about being silly in front of one of the most outrageous people Peter had ever met. So he tried not to worry too much about the stylized writing.

On top of that, his letter to Wade was unusually… Vulnerable. He didn’t typically share much about himself with others, let alone his inner thoughts and feelings, even some of his insecurities. It was a bit daunting, like stripping his shirt off in front of someone he hardly knew. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of his physique, or his thoughts and insecurities, but he wasn’t used to just whipping them out for examination, either. He was… nervous, for Wade’s reaction. But not in an entirely bad way.

He read over the email a few times before finally clicking the send button, tweaking a couple of words and making sure all of his grammar was correct. Then he reread Wade’s email again. Then he forced himself to concentrate on the paper he had due in two days, getting a solid couple hours of work done before his stomach was growling at him loudly enough to prompt a trip to the grocery store even though he _had_ eaten that granola bar before working in the lab.

When Peter finally pressed his laptop closed and slid it into his bag, he was already giddy with anticipation for the next email from Wade. He had to stop himself from repeatedly refreshing his gmail inbox, aware that it was unlikely that Wade would reply so quickly.

He managed a quick stop at the corner store for instant rice and cup o’ soup (a pleasant change from his usual ramen) and made his weekly call to Aunt May while he cooked dinner in the microwave. They had dinner on Fridays when Peter wasn’t too busy, and they had their phone call on Tuesdays. He hardly ever missed it, but she was understanding when he did.

Wade still hadn’t emailed him back when he donned his suit for patrol, but Peter didn’t really mind. The waiting was kind of exciting. Like waiting for a package to arrive in the mail, knowing that opening it up would be well worth it.

Peter decided that he was quite happy with their shift in messaging medium, after all. It was already clear that Wade wrote very good letters. Very, very good letters.


	4. So Won’t You Please Just

_Dear Peter,_

_Peter. Oh, Peter._

_You flatter me. Truly, you make me warm and tingly and all the good, happy feelings that come from knowing that someone you really like and respect really seems to like you, too. At least, these are the feelings I would assume one is usually visited by when this happens. It’s not like it’s happened to me many times before. Maybe once, though the circumstances were quite different._

_Everyone already thinks there’s something wrong with me (many things, very wrong), but if they didn’t already, then I’m sure the amount of grinning like an idiot that you make me do would get me into some trouble. Trouble that would involve padded cells and canvas jackets fastened with chains and buckles; not the fun kind._

_I’m very glad to hear that your statistics presentation went off without a hitch. I would’ve loved to hear it - I could use some help getting to sleep. I jest, I jest. I’m sure seeing you speak would hold me in such rapt attention that nothing could distract me, let alone lull me into unconsciousness. I wouldn’t want to miss a single word. Even if I didn’t understand any of them except for maybe the conjunctions and pronouns._

_Darling. You worry me. An old granola bar is most certainly not proper lunch fare. I’m going to need you to do better than that, alright? Don’t make me fear for your health. I want a solid sandwich in you. Maybe some chips. At least a bit of protein that’s not coming out of a plastic packaging. Except for possibly nuts. Nuts (of all varieties) are good for you. Eat more nuts, Peter._

_I am two-hundred and seventeen in dog years. That’s not exactly the prime of youth, but I’ll defer to your expert opinion on this matter._

_I do not eat three square meals per day. I eat at least five. But not all of us have monstrous metabolisms, so I won’t hold you to the same standard. I wish I could claim a balanced diet, but the base of my food pyramid is hot Cheetos and hostess cupcakes, so I can’t pass judgement. And chimichangas - a food group all on their own. A very important food group, at that._

_As for what I do, I work in contract business, like I mentioned. I used to be special forces, so it’s usually stuff related to that line of work. And what I’d like to do? Well. Ninja unicorn trainer has a nice ring to it, but a more realistic option (slightly) might be professional video-gamer. Then again, sometimes I’ve thought I would make a pretty good teacher. Then I remember that I don’t know anything worth teaching and I’m not suited to be within a hundred yards of a child, but it’s a nice little passing fancy._

_And what would you like to do, genius scientist photography artist? If you could be anything in the world? Do whatever you wanted?_

_Don’t you worry your pretty head about boundaries. I’ll let you know if you hit any, though it’s highly unlikely, polite thing that you are. I don’t think I’d find most anything intrusive coming from you. You find me interesting, and I find you absolutely fascinating. So ask away, and please treat this as a two-way street and throw up a big red stop sign if I ever say anything or ask anything that makes you remotely uncomfortable._

_On that note, let me ask you something considerably personal. And please, know that you don’t have to answer. I’ll completely understand if it’s too soon to share._

_What is your favorite color?_

_Warm Regards,_

_Wade W. Wilson_

 

_Dear Wade,_

_Please stop, you’re making my cheeks burn. (Please don’t stop.)_

_I’m tempted to ask about this “once” which you speak of, but I fear it really may be too soon for that sort of conversation. So just note my passing curiosity and maybe we’ll come back to it someday. It was just once before for me, too, if you’re also curious. Not that I’ve only dated one person, I just mean… You know. This sort of sparkling excitement._

_You don’t seem wrong to me, but you do seem like trouble. And I suppose I’m not completely turned off by chains and buckles… (And god, please just kill me now if I’m anywhere near as terrible at this flirting thing as I think I might be. I truly apologize.)_

_Stats would put most anyone to sleep, Wade, I think I could excuse you if you passed out with the rest. But I do appreciate the sentiment._

_Darling… Would it be terribly forward of me to say that I like the sound of that? Not just the name, I guess. Well, I wouldn’t want you to fear for my health, so. I guess I’ll have to try to do as you say. I’ll be sure to borrow some bread and lunch meat the next time I’m at my aunt’s. And… nuts. If I can find any that match my taste._

_I stand corrected. You’re clearly ancient. What is it a younger boy is supposed to call the older man he’s talking to in such a way? It’s something common. Something… Paternal. Oh, yes._

_Grandpa._

_Contract business. That sounds appropriately vague and mysterious, I suppose. Next time I hear of someone who needs a ninja AND someone to train their unicorn, I’ll be sure to refer them to you. In fact, I think you should give me your business card, just in case. But all joking aside, I think you would make a really good teacher, actually. Sure, you’re kind of all over the place, but so are kids. I think you could really connect with them._

_I want to be a biochemical engineer. Working on synthesizing organic substances and adapting genetic mutation to practical biochemical applications is the goal. I know that probably seems super random and boring, but there are reasons it interests me. And… It would be incredible rude to tell you that and then not offer any of them. I guess the easiest one to explain is that my dad was a biochemist, too. So that’s where the interest came from originally._

_Honestly, though, the more I think about it, the more it kind of seems like maybe I’d do something different if I lived in the absolute ideal world. I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought, but I might be happier doing something like photography full time. But not journalism photography. Not like I’m doing now. Maybe something with film. I don’t know, that sounds pretty stupid and out of the blue. (Where does that phrase even come from?)_

_Well. I won’t worry about boundaries if you won’t. Deal?_

_I feel like I can tell you things. I’m not sure why._

_My favorite color is blue. Not sky blue. Not that obnoxious royal blue like the American flag (even though I can’t seem to escape it). More like… Navy. That midnight blue you see on the horizon right before dawn._

_What is your favorite color, Wade Wilson?_

_Warmest Regards,_

_Peter B. Parker_

 

_My Dear Peter,_

_My god, darling, I won’t ever stop. Not when you ask me so sweetly like that._

_It’s not too soon. I don’t feel like it is, at least. Maybe those strange creatures called the “normal” might be scandalized, but we’re different from them. Aren’t we? I hope we are._

_I think I’ve only been in love once. Her name was Vanessa (and I guess this is as good a time as any to come out and declare my proud pansexuality – Hello! My name is Wade and I am pansexual). We didn’t really meet in the normal way you meet respectable ladies and gentlemen, so the usual tingly first-date pop rocks weren’t popping until later. But I liked her right from the beginning. We just clicked, you know? Well, of course you do. I hope you do. Our relationship was kind of a whirlwind and it ended just as suddenly and messily as it began, but there were some really good times in the middle there. Probably the happiest I’ve ever been in my life (not that that’s saying much, but it was good, very good). There was sparkly excitement and lazy warmth and for a while I thought we might do the whole forever thing. It wasn’t meant to be, but that probably IS a story for another time. We don’t need to mix tragedy with the ex-boyfriend/girlfriend stories._

_I will not allow you to apologize for such delightfulness, baby boy. I think you’re much, much better at the flirting than you think you are. Especially when you tell me such things… If you’d like to do as I say, I’ll just have to keep making requests, won’t I? My first request is this: Tell me why you must steal food from your poor, unsuspecting Aunt. And don’t lie, darling, I’ll know._

_Do you need help paying for school?_

_You vicious, vicious boy. And that’s what you must be, if I’m old enough to be your grandfather. Should I bend you over my knee for your insolence?_

_(Too much? Not enough? Give me a signpost, here, because your talk of chains and Daddies is getting me all wonderfully confused.)_

_I’ve attached my business card for your viewing pleasure. Please only share with seriously interested unicorn owners. And I typed out a self-deprecating joke about kids not surviving a lesson from me, but it’s all falling flat when that’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. I don’t think either of us is good at taking compliments, but here goes nothing: thank you._

_I don’t usually mix well with lab coats interested in harnessing mutant power, but you don’t strike me as the evil genius type. So, go forth and science, I guess. And sorry, that’s coming off as much ruder than intended. That’s actually pretty cool that you want to follow in your dad’s footsteps. My father and I were never close. Is your dad still around? I bet he’d be happy with your career choice._

_I think you’d be a really great photography director for film, Peter. That sounds pretty fucking perfect for you._

_Out of the “blue” refers to the sky, like an unexpected thunderstorm occurring seemingly out of nowhere._

_Deal, my dear. I feel like I can tell you things, too._

_I think that’s pretty damn beautiful. I’m tempted to say the same, but my own color preferences are much more boring. Just red. Like blood. Fresh blood, not that rusty dark color it dries to after a few minutes. And please excuse me for how creepy I now realize that sounds._

_What’s your favorite animal?_

_Your Serial Killer,_

_Wade W. Wilson_

 

_Dearest Wade,_

_We’re different. I know I certainly am, and since we’re “on the same wavelength” it must mean that we’re different together._

_Our tragic love stories seem to be incredibly similar, without going into the details (which I have no doubt would diverge). For me, her name was Gwen. I haven’t wanted to talk about her in a long time, but you make me want to share the things I never say out loud._

_The majority of our relationship was kind of picture perfect. Very classical. We met sophomore year of college in an organic chemistry course, randomly assigned as lab partners. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and probably the smartest person I ever met. Way smarter than me. And somehow, someway, we really clicked. Right from the beginning. I was so in awe of her. I didn’t even ask her out for months because I was convinced she’d never want to go out with me. She ended up doing it herself, and… Well, to borrow your words, that time was probably the happiest I’ve ever been in my life, too. It wasn’t perfect, and we had our difficulties especially near the end, but we loved each other. So much. And I know you didn’t want to get into the sad realities, but I want to tell you. Gwen died a year and a half ago. It was an accident, but I was involved, and it really messed me up. (And now I feel bad for making this depressing as hell. I’m still sad, of course, but it’s in the past. It happened. I guess I just wanted you to know.)_

_And now I’m left confused by this emotional whirlwind because that was heavy, and I don’t know whether to be turned on or offended by your demanding question about my financial situation._

_I’ll be honest, because I do want to do as you request… No, I don’t exactly have money to spare between picking up the slack on school expenses, rent, and helping my Aunt out as much as I can. We never had much money growing up, so I’m used to it. And I don’t really do well with pity or charity or whatever else might be offered up. And I really hope you weren’t OFFERING any such help, because that would be pretty incomprehensible._

_And again with the emotional whiplash, because now I know you’re trying to turn me on. And maybe it’s working. Just a little. (It’s not too much. Not… not enough, either. Just right, I guess, since it seems like we both like a little confusion.) My experience with, um, chains and Daddies, is limited. Nonexistent, really. But I’m… Not… Opposed…_

_Both my parents died when I was seven. I think my dad would approve, though. I’ve read all his papers, and the directions he was headed in are definitely along the lines of the work I’d like to continue. With some adjustments, of course. There have been significant advances since he was working on it fifteen years ago._

_Why weren’t you and your dad close? What about your mom?_

_Your flattery will accomplish nothing. Except turning my entire face a close approximation of your favorite color. (Not that I want you to stop, okay? I seem to suddenly be a fan of embarrassment and grinning like an idiot.)_

_As much as I like dogs (which I’m guessing is your favorite), my favorite animal is probably the elephant. They’re incredibly intelligent and have their own cultures, social habits, and traditions. If we’re extending outside of the animal category, I do have a particular fondness for arachnids._

_Your Evil Scientist,_

_Peter B. Parker_

 

_Darling Peter,_

_Thank you for sharing that with me._

_I’m so very sorry about Gwen. I won’t say that I know how you feel, because each person’s pain is uniquely, agonizingly his own. But you make me want to share things with you, too. Old pains that I keep locked away among the many boxes in my head. Vanessa died, as well. It wasn’t exactly my fault, she was into her own trouble, but it felt that way anyhow. And I’m not telling you to even us up. I just want you to know._

_I want you to know everything about me, Peter._

_I truly didn’t mean to offend you. Believe me, I have no such pity or sympathy. I know intimately what it’s like to go hungry. To be cold. To not have the things that you need. Perhaps it’s too soon and too presumptuous of me, but I simply wanted you to know that I don’t want you to go without. So, as per your very clear request, I shall not offer you anything. But if you should ever have a need that you would like met, I would be more than happy to accommodate you._

_Not that I’m trying to be your sugar daddy, but… I wouldn’t be… Opposed. As you say._

_Don’t worry, baby. We don’t need to dive straight into the wonderful world of BDSM. But since you like it when I tell you what to do, I’ll give you a bit of an assignment, alright? Just for fun. Pick something from this list: https://www.glamour.com/story/a-to-z-kinks-and-fetishes and look it up. Watch a video._

_I’m sorry about your parents, too. I won’t give you any of the usual platitudes, but I’m glad you seem to have a good family in your aunt._

_My dad and I never got along. He was, for lack of a better term, a complete asshole. My mother died when I was too young to really remember her and things were pretty much downhill after that. I don’t remember much of it now, if we’re being honest. It seems like a lifetime ago. I left home early, dropped out of school and joined the military before I turned eighteen._

_You just make me want to flatter you more with talk like that, beautiful boy. I think I’d literally kill to get a look at your blushing face._

_Dogs are fantastical creatures, but my favorite has got to be aardvarks. They’re objectively the coolest. Elephants rock, though, and spiders are the best little creepy crawlies out there. I definitely admire the spiders._

_Favorite holiday?_

_Increasingly yours,_

_Wade W. Wilson_

 

_My Wade,_

_You’re making me bold. It’s wildly thrilling, and kind of terrifying. But in the very best way. I kind of feel… split open._

_I’m glad I told you. And that you told me. I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know me. I really want that. Maybe too much._

_In the interest of sharing; any other serious ex-partners, tragic or otherwise?_

_I’m not offended. Not really. It’s just a bit of a touchy subject for me. And you should know that I’m not destitute or anything. I get by. I just have a bad habit of skipping meals and it just so happens to minimize my grocery bill, that’s all._

_I’m… really not sure how I feel about the… Sugar daddy. Thing. It’s a good feeling, I think. But… Weird. I don’t really want you to buy me things. I don’t think I could accept anything like that. But the idea of it isn’t exactly bad, you know? Makes me feel like I’m completely out of my depth, though. Guess that means I should take some time to study that educational list you sent me… (Wow, by the way. And I’m definitely not surprised to see you reading Glamour.)_

_I may have… Looked into more than one. And you did say to watch videos… Are we, um, doing this sort of thing? I’m not protesting, it just seems a little sordid to discuss such things over email. But I may have, definitely, gotten involved in the dominance research. I’ll just leave it at that. (Tentacles, though. That was interesting.)_

_Yeah, my aunt is pretty great. She and my uncle adopted and raised me, and I had a very good childhood, all things considered. My uncle was killed when I was fifteen, and that was really hard on both of us. But we grew a lot closer after that and now we look out for each other. I couldn’t imagine my life without her._

_That sucks about your dad. I wish I’d known you then; it sounds like you could have used a friend. You seem like one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, but you shouldn’t have to be that strong when you’re still just a kid._

_God… If you’re trying to give me a permanent flush, you’re probably succeeding._

_I don’t have creative tastes in holidays. I’ve got to say mine is probably just Christmas, which is boring, I know. Is yours national Pokémon day or something?_

_Almost Entirely Yours,_

_Peter B. Parker_

 

_My Peter,_

_It feels dangerous to address you as such, but I think I am familiar with this thrill that you speak of. I’ve always been a bit reckless with myself, so I suppose it’s not much of a stretch to put my heart on the line._

_I want to know you, as well. I want to know your thoughts, all of them. I want to know what you believe. What you want. What you fear. A greedy, perilous request, but I’ve never been good at self-restraint._

_No other serious relationships, no. I only had one other that lasted more than a one night stand or maybe a few weeks of one night stands with the same person. We were more friends with benefits than anything else, but I guess there were some feelings involved since we worked together before we started messing around. Or at least, feelings on my side. I’m not sure Nate feels things like a regular human being. It was mostly just good sex, if I’m being entirely honest. He’d pop into my realm and stick around for a while if he had a job to do, then disappear into the ether again. It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen him, though._

_And you? Any other loves of your short, shining life?_

_If skipping meals is a habit for you, my dear, then we’ll have to work on some behavioral modification. I can already see you’ll react well to a reward system, especially if all I have to do is call you something cute like baby boy to make you blush and grin. (Gods, I can picture it so perfectly it makes me want to bite something.)_

_I’m glad it’s a good feeling, Baby Boy. I wouldn’t buy you anything you didn’t want, don’t worry. And I think I understand. You like the idea of someone taking care of you, which is quite convenient since all I want to do is wrap you in blankets and feed you cookies. (Okay, that’s not ALL I want to do, but it’s a good start.)_

_Don’t worry about being out of your depth. If it’s an area you’d like to explore, I’d be more than happy to be your guide. Of course I read Glamour, darling. They have the best styling tips and juicy new things to try in the bedroom!_

_Oh, Peter. Oh, honey… Don’t do this to me. Email is most certainly not the best medium for such… Well, immediately affecting, discussions. I won’t ask you what videos held your attention. Down that path lies temptation and ill-advised indulgence. We shall have to save such conversations for another time. Especially about tentacles._

_Your aunt sounds like a strong, lovely lady. Much like my idol, Bae Arthur. And it’s clear she’s made you into a strong, tenacious young man. I’m sure she must be incredibly proud of you._

_If I had known you in my youth, Peter, I’m positive that my entire life would be different._

_Christmas is a valiant choice. Quite respectable. And you’re close, but no dice. My favorite holiday is February 4th. Thank a Mailman Day._

_No, seriously it’s Halloween. All the freaks come out in flying colors and nobody bats an eye. The strange, wild, and frightening are celebrated. Sometimes I wish it was Halloween every day._

_Favorite Harry Potter book?_

_Simply Yours,_

_Wade W. Wilson_

 

_Simply Wade,_

_I agree. This does feel dangerous. But I don’t want to stop. I flirt with danger every day, but I usually try to avoid it in my personal life. I’ve spent years avoiding it, but I can’t bring myself to put up the walls I’ve maintained all this time. You’re the only person who’s ever climbed over and camped out on the other side._

_Ask me anything, Wade Wilson._

_I dated my good friend MJ in high school, but that only lasted a few months. We parted on good enough terms, but I haven’t spoken to her since we both went off to college. She studied acting in California and is doing pretty well out in LA, last I heard. I’m happy for her. I’m not sure we would really know each other now. Oher than that, it’s just been a few minor hook-ups and failed dates. I don’t really get out that much. I only got on Hornet to find someone to talk to._

_I’m so glad I found you._

_I may be willing to indulge your psychological experiments… If you promise to reward me for my efforts. (I did have an actual sandwich for lunch yesterday – peanut butter and jelly. Do I get points for that?)_

_God, Wade… Don’t call me that. It does make me blush. And makes me other things, too. Things that are not suitable for the library, where I am currently writing to you._

_I’ve never thought about wanting someone to take care of me. I’ve been self-sufficient for so long now, I don’t know if I’d be able to let anyone. But I think I like the idea that you would try… That you would put me in your sweatshirt and force me to eat something. Maybe even make it for me or… Feed me something. (Oh my god. Is this kink? I can’t tell. Help.)_

_Jesus, this has to stop. I really, really can’t have this conversation from the library. Videos will have to wait. (Maybe I can forward you the links later… When I’m at home.)_

_Comparing Aunt May to Bae Arthur? What a high compliment, Wade. I’m honored on her behalf._

_Mine, too. I feel like my life is already different for knowing you._

_I never much saw the point of Halloween after I got too old to trick or treat, but I like the way you describe it. The one time of year that you can be anyone, anything, even yourself, and no one passes judgment._

_Oh, definitely Prisoner of Azkaban._

_Yours,_

_Peter_


	5. Take My Hand

Peter was so far gone.

He thought about Wade all the fucking time. His thoughts felt out of control, unruly and rebellious. He’d be working on a paper and suddenly find that he’d spent the last ten minutes staring into space, day dreaming about talking to Wade. He’d be running delicate protocols in the lab and a memory of some new tidbit he’d learned about Wade would pop into his head, distracting him. He’d be on _patrol_ and thoughts of how Wade called him pet names and made such irresistible suggestions would make him tingly and hot and fighting a certain predicament that would not end well in a skin-tight suit.

The letters were too much sometimes. They left Peter near-sick with squirming anxious happiness and an indescribable ache that he couldn’t place as exciting or terrifying. 

Sometimes he felt like he shared too much, leaving himself exposed and uncomfortable, though not necessarily in a bad way. Sometimes he felt like Wade shared too much, making it almost seem like Peter could crawl into his skin and know him from the inside out. Know his thoughts and feelings and vulnerable insides. It was a weighty responsibility, to be entrusted with such things, and Peter wasn’t sure he could be worthy of it when he hadn’t even met Wade.

But none of that stopped him. It couldn’t. It felt like a compulsion, a wonderfully powerful addiction. He pored over every word Wade wrote to him and spent a significant chunk of his own time carefully writing back. Their emails weren’t frequent. Perhaps one a day, but it felt like more than enough when each one carried so much. Not just literal content, but emotional weight.

A couple of weeks after they switched over to email, Wade asked for Peter’s phone number in one of his letters.

The request made his stomach clench with giddy excitement. It may not seem like a big deal, but it sure felt like it. Wade wanted to talk to him even _more_ often. Wade wanted to text him, and maybe even speak on the phone. Just the idea of it took Peter’s breath away and made his skin tingle in anticipation.

Of course, because he was Peter Parker, he had dropped his phone off of a sky scraper two days previously and shattered it on the pavement fifty stories below.

He was forced to tell Wade that he couldn’t give his number, because his phone was broken (though he kept the embarrassing details, which happened to involve a photo-worthy sunset and a flock of pigeons, to himself). 

Wade’s response nearly broke his heart.

_No need to apologize, my dear. I understand completely if you feel it is too soon. I wouldn’t want to reach further than I am welcome, and I certainly respect your privacy. I would be cautious, too, if I were you. Don’t worry about it._

It was the first time that anything he said had been misunderstood by Wade, and it was horribly unsettling and unpleasant. He’d been misread so completely; he would _love_ for Wade to have his number! Hell, he was barely three steps from offering up his home address and saying to hell with every rule he’d ever set for himself. (Okay, the thought of telling Wade where he lived was undoubtedly frightening, but it also dug deep into his gut like an ache of longing.)

He said as much in his next email, attempting to convince him that he really would give him his number if only he had a phone. He couldn’t tell if Wade believed him or not, which just provoked a whole other host of unpleasant feelings.

In the end, Peter dumped over two-hundred dollars on a new (used) phone within the week, which is the most he’d spent on any one thing since he purchased his laptop at the start of college. It felt like a terrible use of money, but he really did need a phone. Aunt May hadn’t liked not being able to get a hold of him, and calling the police to come pick up his nightly catches was a bitch without his own cell. 

He immediately gave his number to Wade, with a strongly worded request that he _use it_ immediately and often.

Wade did, to Peter’s utter delight. His texts were much like he’d messaged on Hornet, though they were somewhat softer now. Less sharp edges and pointed comedy, more of the thoughtful, insightful comments that had shone through in his emails. 

They did keep up with their letters, saving the deeper discussions for email, but there was a certain thrill in getting mundane updates throughout the day. Peter complained about class and sent pictures of his failed lab experiments. Wade talked about TV and sent obscure photos of his food and workout equipment at the gym that left Peter both stupidly happy and weirdly turned on.

And slowly, surely, Wade continued to worm his way into every corner and crevice of Peter’s life and mind.

* * *

Someone had started leaving things for Peter on his desk at work. 

The first time it happened, he didn’t think too much about it. He’d come in a couple of hours before his scheduled weekly scolding so he could sit at his assigned desktop and edit the few good shots he’d managed to catch over the weekend. He almost didn’t notice the basket sitting on top of his empty mail tray, nearly overflowing with several varieties of packaged nuts, granola bars, and some sort of foil-wrapped chocolates that he’d never seen before. 

When he did notice it, he immediately turned to Betty with a fumbled greeting, which she politely smiled at.

“Um, do you know whose these are?” He asked, holding the basket up. It was surprisingly heavy.

She shook her head. “No idea. They were there when I got here this morning, so I think they must be for you.”

He checked the basket. There was no card.

“Huh. Okay, um, thanks.” He had no idea why anyone would give him a basket of snacks. Maybe someone had left it on his desk by accident. Or maybe Aunt May had sent him something without saying anything. It was the kind of thing she might do, and she had been worrying over how skinny she thought he was just last week. 

He left it untouched until he’d finished his editing, had his loud meeting with J. Jonah Jameson, and was ready to head out for the library. No one had claimed it by then, and the bullpen was nearly empty of people as everyone headed home in rush hour commuter traffic, so Peter figured it must not belong to anyone else in the office. He dumped everything into his backpack, feeling somewhat elicit, and took it home.

He enjoyed the snacks over the next few days, eating through it all unintentionally quickly, and promptly forgot about asking Aunt May if she had sent it.

The next time he came into the Daily Bugle, Betty caught him before he even got to his desk.

“Who’s sending you fruit baskets, Peter?”

“Huh?” He stared blankly at her, then at the indicated basket sitting in front of his computer keyboard. “Um… I don’t think it’s for me.”

He looked for a card again, but there was none.

“No, it’s for you. It’s been there since Wednesday and nobody’s touched it.” She had the glinting, curious look in her eye, like when she was going after some particularly interesting piece of gossip. It made Peter nervous.

“Well, I… I honestly don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly, and Betty let it go with a thoughtful hum, though she didn’t seem entirely satisfied.

Peter settled at his desk and took a closer look. It was full of whole pieces of fruit, but also a few small packages of cheese and fancy grain crackers that were probably gluten free or something. He only came in to the building a couple of times a week, and he almost regretted it when he realized the cheese might not be good if it’d been sitting out for two days. But he took it home later and put it in his refrigerator, and it all tasted fine when he scarfed it down the next day.

He was curious about where the baskets had come from, but he quickly forgot about it again as he prepared for an upcoming meeting with his thesis advisor. He was scheduled to present his proposal in just a few weeks and he needed to have a draft ready for review.

The next three times he found food on his desk at work, he just sort of stopped questioning it. It was weird, sure, but so was everything else in Peter’s life. And he certainly wasn’t going to turn down free, surprisingly delicious food when it crawled right into his lap and nobody else claimed it.

Maybe it was just the universe finally making up for all of the bad luck he’d endured until now.

Maybe Peter was just willfully stupid.

* * *

One day it was the end of summer, balmy air still lingering over the city, and the next it was Halloween.

Peter didn’t usually mark Halloween as anything but a particularly busy night for patrolling. All sorts of people tended to get a bit wild on the nocturnal holiday, which inevitably led to more drugs, more violence, and more people wandering around in the dark bumping into things they shouldn’t. Spider-Man always had his webs full on the last day of October, so Peter made sure to get an early start and was hitting the rooftops by eight in the evening.

He couldn’t forget that Halloween was Wade’s favorite holiday, which made it marginally more exciting than it had been for the last several years. He made sure to text an emoji of a pumpkin and five spiders as soon as he woke up that morning, and Wade had been sending him gifs from Halloween movies all day (Peter liked the Labyrinth ones more than the Saw IV ones). When darkness fell, he made sure to ask the most important question of all.

 **I’m assuming you’re dressing up tonight, because otherwise you’re a total faker right?**  
**pics or it didn’t happen**

Wade didn’t respond right away, and Peter was swinging through a crowded section of Midtown when he felt his phone buzz against his thigh.

He stopped himself on the side of an apartment building, wedging himself up against the brick wall and the iron bars of a fire escape, before pulling out his phone with a wide grin stretched beneath his mask.

He tapped open the picture text, and nearly choked on his own spit.

It was a well-framed selfie of Wade from head to hips, wrapped in a skin tight Deadpool suit.

It was, first and foremost, hot as hell. Wade’s bulging biceps were ringed in leather straps, shapely pecs only accentuated by the clinging leather of the suit. Peter could practically see the cut of his abs and the v of his hips just above the heavy tactical utility belt. He even had swords strapped to his back, clearly going for the authentic look. It was incredibly well done, and the mask was uncannily similar to the glimpses Peter had caught of the real thing.

He wished desperately that he could see Wade’s face, but even this was… Quite satisfying. He stared at it for long enough that Wade texted him again. 

**_u know who I am right?_ **

Peter forced a swallow and pushed down at the embarrassing hard on that had decided to make an appearance between his legs.

**Yeah I know who you are. I kind of have a huge crush on Deadpool, actually.**

He hadn’t had much one-on-one interaction with the guy, which he was mostly thankful for given the mercenary’s reputation, but the couple of run-ins they’d had were… Memorable. The man might not be a good moral role model, but he moved like a dream and had the body of a fucking god. 

**_oh em GEE really baby? wow. that’s wow. good wow. mm. I guess he’s pretty cool_ **

**You… look really good in that suit, Wade.**

**_oh, Peter… don’t say things like that. you’ll test my self-control._ **

Peter wet his lips, his own self-control straining almost as much as his dick inside his suit. This was definitely not a conversation he needed to be having right now. And he really needed to stop looking at the picture. Thankfully, Wade provided a much needed distraction before Peter could formulate a response that probably would have started a chain reaction culminating in Spider-Man breaking some public indecency laws.

**_u gettin dressed up, darling? I can think of so many adorable costumes that would b perfect for u_ **

Peter bit down on his bottom lip, on the edge of making a very bad decision. Well… Maybe not so bad. Hundreds of people dressed up like Spider-Man every year, so it’s not like he would stand out. Before he could talk himself out of it, Peter swiped to his camera and craned his arm to find an angle that would make it look like he was leaning against the fire escape railing, not sticking to the wall some twelve stories above the ground.

He snapped a picture, checked it for suspicious spidey evidence, and sent it to Wade with a pounding heart. The response was almost instantaneous.

**_HOLY FUCK PETER_ **  
**_SPIDEY IS MY CELEBRITY CRUSH_ **  
**_I totally hero worship him 4sure_ **  
**_he’s so hot and nice and totally amazing_ **  
**_I can’t believe we dressed up like each other’s super crushes, guess we’re perfect 4 each other ;)_ **

Peter flushed warm down to his neck, cheeks aching from the smile he couldn’t control. 

Wade liked him. Wade had a _crush_ on him. Maybe it was childish, especially since he’d kind of gotten accustomed to the fame and publicity attached to his alter ego over the last few years, but it made his heart leap to know that Wade even cared about Spider-Man. 

**guess we are. A perfect match.**

* * *

The next time Peter went into the Daily Bugle after Halloween, there was a Deadpool plush sitting in his desk chair.

It was so immediately obvious who it had been leaving him snacks and goodie baskets all this time, Peter couldn’t help but feel like a massive idiot for not realizing it sooner.

He told himself that he should not be okay with this. It should be creepy, that Wade knew where he worked. That he came here. He should be angry that Wade was buying him things when he’d specifically said he didn’t want that.

Instead, he felt… warm. Warm and melty, right in his core.

Wade was in this room. At his desk. He touched Peter’s things. Left him food that Peter ate. Just the thought of him so close was… Intoxicating.

Peter sat at his desk for several long minutes before he got any work done, pressing his face into the soft Deadpool plush to catch any lingering sent of Wade’s touch.

And if he took it home with him and tucked the mini mercenary between his sheets that night, well, it was nobody’s fucking business but his.


	6. And Take My Whole Life Too

One day in November, Wade asked if he could call Peter on the phone.

It seemed completely out of the blue in the middle of their texted conversation about anime, and Peter was caught utterly unprepared for the request.

It froze him in place, a churning anxious knot suddenly twisting at his intestines. He was _terrible_ at talking on the phone. He could only manage his weekly conversations with Aunt May because he’d known her forever and she rarely texted, so they usually had several days of built up life to recount during the twenty-minute phone call. With anyone else, he was cripplingly awkward. He could barely maintain a social interaction in person, but over the phone? It was appalling. He’d once made a customer service representative cry. There should be a law. 

And he couldn’t imagine what Wade would want to talk about. Was their discussion of Yurii On Ice really intense enough that he wanted to have it over the phone? Peter found it unlikely. Their letters had recently drifted towards the topic of childhood experiences. The thought of talking about _that_ over the phone made Peter start to sweat, and it was cold enough in his apartment that he was wearing two sweaters and two pairs of socks.

He hesitated long enough, stressing over all the possible train wrecks, that Wade texted him again.

**_didn’t mean to freak you out, bb. we don’t have to talk, I don’t mind._ **   
**_I just wanted to hear your voice_ **

And just like that, all of Peter’s nerves washed away. 

This was Wade. He wasn’t expecting anything; he just wanted to talk. Even if it was kind of awkward, Peter had no doubt they would continue to click just as they had over text and email.

**no it’s okay. Just give me a minute to finish eating.**

It was kind of late for dinner, but Peter had been bent over his counter anyway, eating instant rice and multitasking with texting and his homework. He dumped his bowl unfinished in the sink and washed his hands in a rush, hurried by nervous excitement. He half-dried his hands on a dishtowel and left his books where they were, carrying his phone to the other end of the room where he sank down onto his threadbare couch.

He pulled up Wade’s contact on his phone and stared at it for a few moments, breath shaky and heart racing. To his surprise, he was more anticipatory than stressed, and it was easier than he thought it would be to hit the call button and bring the phone to his ear.

It only rang twice.

“Hello.”

Peter had been hearing Wade’s voice in his head for weeks, but his expectations positively paled in comparison to reality. It was deeper than he’d imagined, a low rumble with an edge of roughness in that one word. He could hear the subtle tension of nerves, and it brought a breathless grin unbidden to his face.

“Hi.” He whispered back, cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey.”

He could almost hear the curl of Wade smiling over the line.

“Hi, there.” He repeated, a new breathless quality to his tone that sent delicious tingles down Peter’s back.

He slumped sideways on the couch and closed his eyes, pressing half his face into the couch cushion to hide the ache of his grin. “You said that.”

He sounded weak and soft and giddy, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt shivery, with Wade’s presence so much more immediate than it had ever been before. If he kept his eyes closed and held his breath so he could hear Wade breathing over the phone, he could almost imagine they were in the same room together. 

The slow roll of Wade’s chuckle made his mouth go dry.

“Did I? My apologies, Peter.”

And oh god. Hearing Wade say his _name_ was what he imagined having a religious experience must be like. It had to be the most beautifully arousing thing he’d ever heard.

“It’s okay.” He breathed without meaning to, curling his knees up towards his chest and tucking his free arm around his legs.

He could definitely hear the smile in Wade’s words now. “Good. I’m glad my lack of eloquence hasn’t offended you.”

Peter was silent for a moment, unable to tame his grin upon hearing such _Wade_ words come out in that voice. He could hear the shift of fabric on skin as Wade moved at the other end of the line, and he pressed his tongue to his teeth as he listened, relishing in the sound.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” He finally said, voice hushed in the sudden quiet of his apartment.

Wade was quiet for a long moment, too. When he spoke again, his voice was equally muted, with a gentle intensity that sank through Peter’s skin like hot water. 

“I really like hearing your voice, Peter.”

Peter’s swallow felt tight in his throat. His lips made a wet sound when he parted them, eyes still closed. “I really like hearing yours, Wade.”

The subtle intake of breath from Wade’s end did not go unnoticed, and Peter suddenly felt much warmer than he did before, flushed and achy. He blinked his eyes open, briefly shaken by the intensity of his reaction.

“I’m proposing my thesis tomorrow.” He said into the suspended silence, words a bit hoarse.

Wade picked up the thread after just a beat of hesitation. “I know. I wrote the date on my calendar.”

Peter’s smile was accompanied by something sharp and throbbing buried beneath his ribs this time. “I think it’s going to get approved.”

“I know it will, honey. You’re going to do so great.” 

Wade’s tone was soft with an unguarded adoration, and Peter couldn’t answer, teeth buried in the flesh of his bottom lip as his eyes squeezed shut once more.

They listened to each other breathe for a few seconds, Peter’s chest tight with the pounding of his heart, before Wade spoke again. “I’m gonna let you get some sleep, okay? Since you have such a big day tomorrow.”

Peter had to swallow again, and even still he couldn’t raise his voice above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Wade.”

There was a long pause before the line clicked dead against Peter’s ear, and he lay curled up with the phone pressed to his cheek for a long minute afterwards, listening to the silence.

He slowly unfolded his body and sat up, arm falling to hold the phone cradled loosely in his lap, and took a shaky breath. He raised his empty hand to press tight against his chest, feeling the heavy pound of his heart against his palm, trying to memorize the unnamable change that he felt there in the beat of it.

* * *

They talked on the phone a couple more times over the next week or two. It wasn’t often, because most of the time when Peter happened to be home, Wade was out on a job or at his friend Weasel’s bar (and don’t get Peter started on the fact that Wade insisted that was the man’s real name). He didn’t think he could handle one of their phone calls while he was out anywhere. He’d be liable to miss a subway stop, walk into traffic, or fall off the roof of a building. 

Because talking to Wade was incredibly distracting. Peter’s whole body seemed to react to the sound of his voice, and it was really probably a good thing they haven’t had many chances to talk because Peter was already starting to get… Frustrated.

Okay, if he was being honest, he was fucking horny. All the time. And it wasn’t like regular, surface level horniness. It was more than physical. Yeah, there was a new itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch no matter how many times he jerked off, but it was mental, too. 

He _longed_ for Wade. Thought about touching him all day long. Not even sexual touching (though he thought about that, too, every night when he lay in bed). Just regular stuff. Holding his hand. Leaning against him on the couch. Just being in the same space together. He couldn’t stop imagining it, to the point that every time he closed his eyes, he was thinking about Wade being in the room with him. What he’d be doing. Hearing him breathe. Feeling him move through the air.

Peter was starting to get concerned about his mental health, because surely this level of obsession could not be good for him.

The calls weren’t even anything special, when he thought about them objectively. They never talked about anything of much substance. Just things that may have happened that day, or plans in the near future. It never got more intense than that, and yet after every call, Peter had the uncanny sensation that he’d just slipped further down a cliff side that he was desperately clinging to. 

And then one day, Wade asked Peter what he was wearing.

It wasn’t meant to be a come on. Peter had been complaining about the colder weather, and Wade was gearing up for a lecture on the importance of winter clothing. In an attempt to head that off, and because he really didn’t want to show up to the Daily Bugle to find a parka and six sets of hats and scarves on his desk, Peter stated that he was already dressed warmly. And that’s when Wade texted the fateful question:

**_what’re u wearing?_ **

And because Peter was feeling frisky, and edgy, and kind of rebellious, he sent Wade a picture instead of typing it out.

He had just gotten home, not planning on staying longer than it would take to change into his Spidey suit for patrol, so he leaned against the back of the door and snapped a photo of himself in his jeans, hoodie, and Uncle Ben’s old flannel jacket. It was about two sizes too big on him, which he liked to think made it warmer.

It took Wade a while to respond.

**_Oh Peter. I have many thoughts about how you look in that outfit._ **

Just the insinuation had Peter flushing warm across his cheeks, teeth teasing at his bottom lip as he diverted to the couch instead of digging his suit out of the laundry hamper.

**Oh yeah? Like what?**

He knew it was a dangerous game to play, but he was feeling a little dangerous.

**_You look… really hot. if it weren’t so chilly out, I’d tell you to take something off._ **

It was the most blatantly sexual thing Wade had ever said to him in any actionable phrasing. Much to Peter’s chagrin (because it wasn’t the most original flirtation), it had him instantly aroused. He shifted against the couch cushions and licked his lips, hesitating as he considered whether he wanted to continue down this road.

Hell, he was fooling himself if he thought there was any chance he could show restraint.

**I’m not out in the cold now.**

It took Wade even longer to respond this time, and Peter chewed distractedly on his lip as he waited.

**_are we doing this?_ **

**If you want to**

Wade responded nearly instantaneously.

**_Take your jacket off._ **

Peter’s stomach jolted, and he took a moment to remember how to breathe before he was sitting up and ripping the jacket off, slinging it carelessly to the floor before grabbing his phone up again.

**it’s off.**

**_Tell me what you’re wearing underneath the sweatshirt._**

Peter slipped a hand under the hem of his hoodie and tugged down the edge of his shirt.

**Just a t-shirt. It’s blue.**

**_Leave it on. The sweatshirt too. Take your shoes off if you haven’t yet._ **

**_Push your sleeves up and run your fingers down your arms._**

He kicked off his shoes and did as Wade said, closing his eyes against the shiver that ran up his spine. He had no idea his skin could feel so sensitive; the soft crease of his elbow, the insides of his wrists.

**_Are you still cold, baby?_ **

**no, I’m warm. really warm**

**_Good. Put your hood on._ **

He obeyed without questioning it, pulling the hood over his head and leaning back against the couch. There was much more focus on physical sensation like this, with his periphery dark and hearing muffled. He felt closed in, cocooned. Only aware of the shift of fabric on his skin and how incredibly hard he was in his jeans.

**_Push your shirt up and lay your hand over your stomach. Feel how soft your skin is._ **

He did, abs tensing under his palm. He had to clamp down on a whine crawling up the back of his throat, and it was harder to type one handed.

**fuck Wade**

**_I know baby._ **

**_You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you?_ **

He liked it. He really fucking liked it. His breath was coming harder when he swiped to his camera and took a picture of his lap, hard length of his dick outlined under the tight material.

He sent it to Wade.

A few seconds later, his phone vibrated with a call.

Peter answered. He had to answer, eyes slipping shut as he brought the phone to his ear. He swallowed and wet his lips before he could speak. “Hi.”

“God, Peter. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” 

The low rumble of Wade’s voice shot straight to Peter’s dick and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching down to press the heel of his hand against it, relieving some of the pressure with a soft whimper.

“I think I do.” He managed, breathless.

He could hear shifting movement on Wade’s end, a soft grunt of breath that made Peter’s fingers twitch. When he spoke again, his tone was darker and richer, like liquid sex.

“Don’t touch your cock, Peter. Keep your hand on your stomach.”

He nearly groaned in protest, but did as Wade said, erection throbbing just to hear the order out loud.

“Okay.”

“Good boy.”

Peter let out a helpless sound at the words, all sense of self-consciousness melting to nothing in the face of his intense arousal.

“Slide your fingers over your ribs, feel them move.” Wade spoke with a steady command that sank into Peter’s skin like syrup. “Brush over your nipples.”

Peter didn’t bother to muffle his moan, back arching against the couch and hips pushing forward into nothing.

“That’s right, Peter. Gentle, okay? I know you’re sensitive.”

He was panting for breath now, overheated in his hood and flushed down to his chest.

“Wade, please.” He didn’t want Wade to stop, but he was already desperately on edge. He needed. Needed more.

A soft groan from the other end of the line, the quiet squeak of springs, and Peter could feel his boxers growing slick and damp with a pulse of precome.

“Okay, baby. You can touch yourself now, but stay outside your jeans. Just rub against your hand, okay?”

He grabbed eagerly for his dick, moaning in relief at the delicious friction. It was rough and not enough, but still felt unbelievably good to thrust up against his own hand, shamelessly chasing the sensation.

“Oh fuck, Wade. Are you…?”

“Yeah.” The tight, breathless tint of his voice made Peter ache. “Fuck baby, you make me so hard.”

The soft, pained sound that Peter made was unrecognizable to himself.

“Oh god, oh please…” He was so close, just from this. Just like this. But it wasn’t quite enough. “Please, please I need…”

“Yeah, Peter. Touch yourself for me, okay? Let me hear you.”

He nearly cried from relief when he could shove his hand down the front of his pants and curl his fingers around the length of his cock. He yanked himself free of his jeans and swiped his thumb over his head, spreading slick down his length. It only took a few tight swipes of his fist before he was coming hard with a broken sob.

He heard Wade groan his name, low and rough, and the aftershocks of his orgasm ripped through him, arching him off the couch as he gasped for breath.

“Oh… God.” He sank back again, chest heaving and head whirling. He felt weightless. Tingly. Fucking amazing.

He could hear Wade breathing hard and steady, could hear the effort it took to slow down his gulps of air.

“Yeah.” He agreed, and the wrecked sound of his voice made Peter shiver.

“That was… Fuck.”

“Yeah.” He let out a short huff of laughter, and Peter grinned in response.

They were both quiet for a minute as they recovered, the silence comfortable and close.

“You okay?” Wade asked after a while.

“Mhm.” Peter responded, loose and lazy, but he let out a groan when he shifted to feel the cold wet sticking to his fingers and sinking into the rumpled fabric of his shirt and hoodie. “I made a mess.”

Wade’s chuckle was low and rich. “Yeah, I bet you did.”

He growled in mock annoyance. “And whose fault was that, huh?”

“You started it, honey.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe the grin from his mouth. “I’d say it was a group effort.”

“That’s fair.” There was movement on Wade’s end, a soft sigh. “I may have made a bit of a mess, too.”

He closed his eyes again, chest suddenly tight and hot. He could hear cloth shifting. Maybe Wade was cleaning himself up with a towel or a t-shirt. Peter could imagine he would be the kind of guy to clean up come with his discarded clothes. 

“Go clean yourself up, Peter.”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Take a hot shower or something.” He could hear the smile in Wade’s voice. “I wouldn’t want you to be cold.”

His mouth ached from smiling so much. “Shut up.”

“As you wish, darling.” 

They both lingered, listening to each other breath for a few more moments before Wade hummed softly. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight.”

It took another few seconds for Wade to hang up, and Peter sat with the phone pressed to his ear for a long minute before he could drag himself to his feet and stumble into the shower. He felt weak, like he’d run a marathon. Wrung out.

Like he’d run out of resistance.


	7. ‘Cause I Can’t Help

Peter wasn’t sure it was possible, but things got even more heated after the phone call. 

It felt like each text was underpinned by a subtext of deeper meaning, and there was a delicious tension in each of their letters. Another phone call or two couldn’t be helped, and Peter was…

Falling.

He couldn’t keep deluding himself into thinking this would stay within the confines of digital communication. He couldn’t ignore his own feelings when each minute he spent apart from Wade ached worse than the last.

He was going to have to gather his courage and say something about it, because he couldn’t go on like this. And for as much as Wade liked to tell him what to do, it was clear that he would wait for Peter to make the first move this time. Peter was frankly surprised that he hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting face to face before they reached this point. Wade had been responsible for progressing their relationship to the level of phone calls, and he certainly didn’t seem like someone who would be shy about asking for what he wanted.

That only made it all the more apparent that Peter would have to be the once to take this step.

So one afternoon, he skipped his research session at the library and made the trek to his apartment to compose an email.

 

_My Dear Wade,_

_Hi. How are you? I miss you._

_I’ll respond to your latest letter, but right now there’s something else I want to say. I suppose we could talk about this over the phone, but I’m still a bit of a coward and I haven’t been the best at phone conversations in the past. Words don’t always come out the way I want them to, so I figured it would be best if I wrote everything out to make sure my meaning comes across with clarity and eloquence (if at all possible)._

_Even on email, it’s harder to say what I mean than I thought it would be. So I’ll just come right out and say it._

_I want to meet you._

_I’ll be honest, I never intended to let anyone into my life when I made that account on Hornet. I didn’t think I had time for any of that. But then, I never thought I would end up talking to you, Wade Wilson._

_And I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop imagining you with me. Sometimes, when I’m watching a show or even working in the library, I think about what you might say if you were sitting beside me. I think about showing you where I work, and where I go to school, and where I live. I think about going to your place, and watching Golden Girls with you. I think about eating dinner that you’ve cooked (because I know you can cook, even if you’ve never talked about it)._

_I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to know how it feels to be with you. And that scares me, Wade._

_I want to meet you, but I’m nervous. I’m really nervous about getting that close to you. I’m afraid that I can’t control my own heart. And if this isn’t… permanent, I’m not sure I could deal with that._

_Even just typing it out makes my stomach feel like it’s dropping out of my body, but I can’t go another day without telling you._

_I’m not asking to get coffee tomorrow, but I wanted you to know. And I want to know how you feel. I always want you to know._

_With My Heart,_

_Peter_

 

He’d never felt so anxious about emailing Wade before, but his heart was in his stomach when he pressed send. He expected to be an anxious wreck for the rest of the day, but he got a response before he prepared to go out on patrol that night.

 

_My Lovely Peter,_

_You never fail to evoke all manner of emotions in me. I’m ecstatic, and endeared, and nervous, and melancholy. I’m honored to have you share a piece of your heart with me, yet again._

_I think you’re right. About everything._

_You know that you occupy my thoughts just as much as I occupy yours, if not more. I’m constantly fantasizing about what you might do or say in any situation I seem to get myself into. In that, we are the same._

_And I share your fear, too._

_I’m not sure it would be a good idea, to try to move what we have into the real world. It would hurt too much to watch this fall apart._

_So as much as I want to have you beside me (and I want it so badly my teeth ache), I agree that we shouldn’t meet._

_Yours,_

_Wade_

 

Peter was… Perplexed.

There was a cold, creeping sort of dread trickling through his veins, but he couldn’t think past his initial confusion. The email didn’t even _sound_ like Wade. And what he was saying didn’t… Compute.

It was so short. Such a simple denial with no offered explanation.

Wade didn’t want to meet him.

He’d agreed so easily. Peter was so used to Wade’s responses brining him comfort and clarity, whether he was reassuring Peter about work stuff or validating their feelings for each other. This didn’t feel like validation. This felt like rejection.

It hurt.

He hadn’t really thought about it, but he’d been expecting Wade to soothe his fears and offer a solution. He’d expected Wade to assure him that they had time, and there was nothing to be anxious about. And ultimately, he thought they would do it. They’d make plans and they would meet and this would keep going.

He’d never entertained the idea that this might _not_ keep going.

The realization now put him in a state of shock, and he sat staring at his computer long past the time that he was supposed to start his patrol.

He didn’t reply to the email that night. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

* * *

Peter didn’t feel like himself when he finally fell asleep that night, stomach a mess of knots and head full of fog. He didn’t feel like himself in the morning, either.

Wade hadn’t texted him. 

It was that, the sudden silence between them, that settled panic in the back of Peter’s throat. He went through the motions of his day completely distracted, constantly aware of Wade’s absence like an aching hole in his chest.

It wasn’t until the possibility that this might end, that what they had could fall apart, that Peter realized just how far he’d fallen. It was already too late. He was in too deep. He couldn’t imagine going back to how things were before this, because just this, a day without Wade, was enough to make him feel broken.

And he didn’t know what to do, because Wade didn’t want to meet him. And the more he thought about it, the more it hurt.

And it just felt worse to know that he wasn’t even mad at Wade. He just missed him. He just wanted to talk to him, because Wade always made him feel better just by being there. On the other end of the phone. Words on a screen.

He gave in that night, unable to keep away when the distance was grating on his every nerve like sandpaper. He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t continue their last pointless, light conversation. So he just kept it simple.

**hey.**

Wade responded almost immediately.

**_Hi. I’m sorry. I know I made this painful and bad, but I don’t know what to say to make it better again._ **

Peter hadn’t cried, but his throat felt tight and his chest ached when he read those words. Did Wade feel like this was breaking, too?

**I don’t either.**   
**I miss you, though.**

**_I miss you so much, Peter. I’m really sorry I didn’t text. It just didn’t feel like we could keep talking about aliens vs robots, you know?_ **

**yeah.**   
**Can you tell me why? Why you don’t think we should meet?**

It felt dangerous to ask, like he was opening himself up to more pain. But he had to know. 

**_I just don’t want this to end. I love talking to you too much. And I think losing that would just… Not be something I could handle._ **

Peter felt the same way, but that didn’t really answer his question.

**But why would meeting mean the end of what we have now?**

It took Wade longer to reply to that question.

**_Because I don’t think you would like me if we met in person._ **

Peter had to be honest. That was _not_ the answer he’d been expecting. How in the world could Wade think Peter wouldn’t like him? That seemed incomprehensible at this point.

**So… It’s not because you don’t want to be disappointed by me?**

**_god no, Peter no._ **   
**_that’s the last thing I’m afraid of, okay? I’m positive that meeting you would only make me more enthralled and more obsessed._ **   
**_I want to meet you more than anything because you’re honestly the best person I’ve ever met. Don’t ever doubt that_ **

The reassurances loosened something tight and painful in Peter’s gut, but they didn’t resolve his confusion.

**Then what is it? How could you actually think I wouldn’t like you? I like everything about you.**

Wade didn’t respond for a while, and Peter’s anxiety crept back while he waited. He trusted that Wade meant what he said, but none of this was making sense, and Peter couldn’t help but feel like something important was being kept from him. It was a terrible feeling.

**_You don’t know what I look like. You won’t want to be with me._ **

Peter’s first reaction was indignant disbelief. What did he even mean by that? And why would he ever think that Peter would care about such a thing? Did he really come off as that shallow or superficial? He had a dozen rebuttals on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t type any of them out.

He took a moment to think about it seriously, because Wade wouldn’t be saying that if he didn’t believe it. 

What if Wade had gotten old? His Hornet profile had said he was thirty-one, but he could have lied. It seemed very unlikely, though. Peter cast his mind back to the familiar profile picture, searching for any way that Wade could be at all unattractive. It wasn’t a clear shot of him, his face obscured by sunglasses and a baseball hat, the rest cast in shadow with only his glittering smile visible. But even so, it was clear how handsome he was. And fit.

What if he’d gained weight? He worked out often, if the silly gym pictures were anything to go by, and as far as Peter could gather, his job was active, too. (Not to mention his Halloween picture had been so fucking hot it made Peter wonder if it was faked.) But Peter could tell, in his gut, that Wade hadn’t been lying to him. So it wouldn’t make sense for it to be that. 

What then? 

He could tell Wade was going to be stubborn about this, but there was only one way to resolve it. And if Wade’s fears really were about Peter liking him, then there was no way this wouldn’t work out just fine.

Peter didn’t often push for things that he wanted. He had few enough opportunities to do so, and even less practice at it, but this wasn’t going to be something he let go of. It was important. And he was going to fight for it.

**Wade, I want to meet you.**   
**Please.**


	8. Falling In Love With You

The Starbucks was crowded.

Why the fuck was the Starbucks crowded? Why the fuck had Peter chosen the absolute _worst_ possible time for such an important meeting? He was a fucking idiot, that’s why. 

Four in the afternoon was when college students were flooding the cafés after class, desperate for caffeine and a table to sit their laptops on while they wasted hours surfing tumblr and pretending their Spotify playlists were retro and unique. Four in the afternoon was when the regular white collars fleeing work early were ducking in for a fix before heading home. Four in the afternoon was when the city moms stood in line with their complaining tweens for the daily double skinny vanilla latte with whip. 

Four in the afternoon was not the time for meeting your maybe-boyfriend at Starbucks for the first time ever. 

Re: Peter was a fucking idiot.

He bounced anxiously on his toes, fingers twisting in the hem of his jacket as he peered through the crowd, searching for a place to sit. 

Why Starbucks? Why, Peter, why?

Wade wasn’t a Starbucks kind of guy. He might like their green tea Frappuccinos, but he would probably feel more at home at… A… Better place. Chipotle, maybe.

Fuck. 

He was more than half an hour early, so he could at least hold out hope that the coffee shop would be cleared out some by the time Wade got here. He gave up on trying to find a place to sit and got in line instead, entertaining grand ideas about wooing Wade over with an overpriced coffee drink. He changed his mind a half-dozen times about what to get before he got to the counter, and ended up going with the safest choice available. 

“A venti green tea Frappuccino with extra whip and a medium hot chocolate, please.”

He did not need coffee right now, no matter how much he craved it. He was liable to shake out of his skin if he caffeinated himself. 

He cringed at the bill but paid it anyway, then shuffled over to the crowd beside the counter to wait for his drinks. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing around the room every few seconds, searching faces and scanning bodies. He was early, but that didn’t mean Wade couldn’t show up at any moment. A part of Peter was afraid he wouldn’t recognize him; he’d never actually seen a clear picture of Wade, after all. But he was still sure none of the people crammed into this café were him. They were too short, or too skinny. None of them had the broad shoulders or bulging arms, that gorgeous shadow of a jaw line that Peter had stared at too many times to count. No, he would probably recognize Wade even if he didn’t know his face. He was just too familiar to Peter.

A bigger part of him was afraid that Wade wouldn’t show up at all.

It had taken quite a bit of effort to get Wade to agree to a meet up, and it seemed like the only reason he did so at all was because he was convinced that this was over either way. Their options were limited now that Peter had broken the spell they’d been living under for months, when he asked to meet in real life. There were only so many possible outcomes to this, after they let go of the cliff and started to fall.

They could never meet, and just keep talking until they grew bored of each other. Or, more likely, until they both grew too sad and desperate and frustrated by how _not enough_ it was and Peter’s quiet resentment built and built in the pit of his gut until just thinking about Wade would make him want to scream and cry and throw things because couldn’t he see that they were it for each other, this was it, and why didn’t Wade _want_ him?

Or. They didn’t meet, and they didn’t talk anymore. And Peter lived with the sharp, horrible aching knowledge of what almost was and what he lost, again, until that faded into a dull, constant throb of loneliness that he just got used to until one day he hardly even noticed it anymore. Just kept on going through the motions and checking things off his to-do list and occasionally drudging up the pain of old memories and what it had felt like to kind of be almost happy once, until he got old enough and weak enough and died fighting on the street like he always knew he would.

Or, they met. 

Wade seemed to think that meeting was paramount to an assured end to their relationship. For some reason that Peter honestly couldn’t fathom, he thought there was something about himself that would make Peter want to cut ties and run.

He wasn’t sure there was anything that could make that happen. He’d gone through the worst-case scenarios a hundred times in his head, and he should probably feel a little bad to realize how many terrible things he’d be willing to accept when it came to Wade W. Wilson. But he couldn’t deny it. He wouldn’t care if Wade had lied to him somehow (even though Peter had an unshakable feeling that he never had), if he was old, or gender nonconforming. He wouldn’t care if Wade was a serial killer. They might have to have a chat about that, but it wouldn’t turn him away completely. 

So he was nervous as hell, because Wade was nervous and pessimistic and Peter couldn’t be sure how he would act, or if he would even come. But he wasn’t worried about the actual would-this-work-out stakes of the whole thing because… Well, he’d made up his mind. As crazy as it was, as impossible as Peter had once convinced himself such a thing would be, he wanted Wade Wilson. He wanted him completely, no compromises. 

He just needed Wade to want him, too.

One of the baristas called Peter’s name loudly enough to make him flinch, and a glance at the phone he held in his sweaty palm told him that almost ten minutes had slipped by without his consent. He scanned the room again, both relieved and disappointed to find no sign of Wade, and retrieved his order. 

He stood awkwardly by a window, one hand growing hot and the other cold with the drinks he held, until a woman and a child stood up from a table and Peter darted forward to snag it before they had even finished putting their coats on. He offered them a smile that he hoped looked more like an actual smile and not the grimace it felt like, and sat as they left. He placed Wade’s Frappuccino at the opposite seat so that no one would try to sit there or steal the chair. Then he turned the cup so the insignia would be facing Wade when he sat down.

The table had crumbs on it. Peter brushed them off with his sleeve, then rubbed his sleeve on his jeans. He checked his phone. Only three minutes had passed. He made another attempt at smoothing his hair down into something that resembled tame, but the stubborn curls probably only gained volume as he ran his anxious fingers through them. He pressed his hands between his knees so he wouldn’t do that anymore. He scanned the room again.

The minutes seemed to crawl by and the churning ball of nerves in Peter’s stomach only seemed to get heavier with each passing second. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up. That would be extremely embarrassing (though, he realized with a flicker of a smile, Wade would probably find it funny). No, he couldn’t throw up. Because if he went to the restroom then he would lose the table, and Wade might show up and not be able to find him, and that was about the worst possible scenario Peter could think of right now. It would be better just to puke on the floor, if it came to that.

He stared at his phone as the time inched past 4:00 to 4:01. He scanned the room again. The slow crawl of panic was beginning to set in, turning the taste of nerves in the back of his throat sharp with iron and bitter bile. His skin felt chilled, the anxious sheen of sweat turning cold and clammy on the back of his neck despite the overheated interior of the coffee shop. He could feel his whole body humming with fine tremors.

4:03.

Maybe Wade wasn’t coming.

By 4:06 Peter could feel the burn of tears behind his eyes, and an aching lump was forming in his throat, making it hard to swallow. 

After everything, he’d really thought Wade would come. Despite his reservations and doubts, he knew what this was. He knew how much Peter cared about this. Not coming was… It felt like… Betrayal. Like an end.

He fixed his eyes on the ridge of the cardboard sleeve around his hot chocolate and focused on the hitch in his breathing, that slowly sharpening stab of pain beneath his heart every time his ribs expanded. He focused on that so he wouldn’t cry. He could feel the sting of them, traitorous tears, but he wouldn’t let them well up. Not here.

It was a bit hypocritical of him, he knew. If he was willing to throw up in a crowded Starbucks, he should be willing to cry there, too. But if he started then he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop, and he was at least a few minutes away from no longer caring about having a complete breakdown in public.

At 4:13 a tall, hooded man ducked through the doorway, shuffling in behind two businessmen engaged in conversation.

Peter noticed him immediately, gaze drawn to him just from the glimpse he’d caught in his periphery. There was something about the way he moved, the way he oriented himself, face ducked so that Peter couldn’t see it beneath the edge of his hood but body angled to keep him in his sphere of awareness, like he was orbiting.

Like he was aware of exactly where Peter was even though he wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t even facing him. 

Peter held his breath. Everything drained away, quick as pulling a plug on every anxious fear that had held him in its claws until this very moment. He was entirely consumed with running his eyes over every inch of the man he was _sure_ was Wade. 

It was him. It couldn’t not be him. Peter could _feel_ that it was him. And having him so close after all this time, laying eyes on him, in real life, in the same room, not four yards away. It was… Strange and wonderful and so painfully real that Peter’s ribs ached and his lungs burned before he sucked in a gasp of a breath.

The air tasted sweet and sharp like ice.

Wade pretended to stand in line for a while, but he could clearly feel Peter’s eyes on him. He gave up on the pretense after a few lingering moments (that stretched on like an eternity), and Peter’s heart pounded fast and hard beneath his skin as Wade wove smoothly through the crowd to the little table where he sat.

He was so tall. So _broad_ and big and unexpectedly graceful. Not as fluid as a dancer, but each step he took held enough precision and intent to send a shudder through Peter’s insides.

He had the hood of his giant red sweatshirt pulled so low that Peter still couldn’t see his face when he stepped up hesitantly to the back of the chair meant for him. Peter’s stare bore into the shadows there, desperate for the sight of his eyes, but he didn’t crane for a better angle. He didn’t push for that yet. It was overwhelming enough just to have him here.

_Here._

“Hi.” 

Peter stumbled over the word, high and breathy in spite of himself.

Wade jerked a bit, just enough for Peter’s sharp eyes to catch, as if the word had run over his skin like an electric shock. He slipped a hand out of his pocket and pulled out the chair to sit down. He was wearing gloves with a soft, muted sheen like leather. He still felt big when he folded himself down into the little wooden chair, his frame dominating the table and the space around it, making everything else look small and fragile in comparison.

Peter wanted to crawl into his lap and live there. 

His eyes clung to Wade’s hand as he reached for the melted Frappuccino and slid one finger through the condensation, gathering droplets on the black leather.

“Hey.”

The low rumble of his voice, rough and smooth all at once like an oil spill over crushed glass, was even better in person. It was Peter’s turn to shiver, a slow, uncontrollable tremble that travelled over his shoulders and up his neck, and he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and taste the sound of it.

“Hi.” He breathed again, barely more than a whisper of unconscious repetition, fingers digging hard into the legs of his pants.

Wade chuckled, a short, soft sound that was gone in an instant, but Peter felt it in his bones.

“You said that.”

“Yeah.” Peter felt faint. Maybe he should have been worried about passing out instead of puking. 

Wade pulled his drink a bit closer to him, sinking just a little lower into his seat, and Peter’s eyes flashed to his face.

He could see the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw. Those perfect fucking lips oh god. He was leaning forward without meaning to, the edge of the table digging into his stomach, and his breath caught in his throat when Wade’s mouth twisted into a little frown.

It was a beautiful frown. Peter wanted to lick it.

“Please?” He asked, breathless and soft.

Wade went stiff for a moment, fingers curling reflexively over the venti green tea Frappuccino. He sat frozen for a heartbeat, for forever, and then he reached slowly for his hood. His shoulders fell, lines of his body etched into resignation and misery as he tugged the cloth back from his face.

Peter stared.

His skin was a map of scars. His face, his whole head was covered in them. Flushed and painful. A dense, overlapping tapestry of ruin that stretched tight against his bone structure, highlighting the cutting line of his jaw, the curves of his cheekbones, the ridges of his eyes.

His eyes. They were downturned, fixed dejectedly on the veneer of the table. Then they flickered up once towards Peter. Not enough, not all the way up to meet his gaze, but sufficient for him to catch a glimpse of the brightest, saddest blue he’d ever seen. Peter couldn’t breathe.

He was so fucking beautiful.

He forced a swallow. Wet his lips. Words were stuck in this throat, too many of them and not enough. There weren’t words for this.

“Is this why you didn’t want to meet me?” There was a tremble beneath the color of his voice, but the question came out much more solid than he’d been expecting.

Wade flinched back from it all the same, his hands curling into fists on the table top and his large frame hunching over as if he had any chance of hiding himself from the eyes that lingered on him. It made Peter’s whole chest ache something fierce.

“Obviously.” He muttered with a dark, resentful twist that Peter had never heard in his voice before. 

The sound of it, so bitter on Wade’s tongue, was both surprising and entirely not surprising. It slotted into the puzzle of his personality like a missing piece, making the picture clearer, more complete. Veins of self-deprecation and darkness that Peter had only glimpsed through the lines on his computer screen, only heard hints of in the phrasing of Wade’s confessions.

It drew Peter in like a magnet, his obsession with the man only deepening with each new complication, each layer he peeled away. He wanted Wade flayed before him, craved the dark sweet center of his core. He could imagine spending the rest of his life trying to learn the twisting corridors and crevices of Wade’s mind, and the thought only thrilled him. 

Wade looked like he wished he could curl up and disappear and all Peter wanted to do in this moment was reach out for him, wrap him up in every warm feeling rushing through Peter’s veins. Reassure him. Take him away from the prying stares and bustling commotion of everyone else. 

He opened his mouth to say the words that would make everything okay, but he choked on the tangle of emotions in his throat and all that came out was a harsh breath of sound. It could have been a laugh or a sob. Peter wasn’t sure which.

He hunched over the table, gasping at the punch of feeling in his stomach, and Wade straightened up in concern.

“Peter?” One gloved hand slid towards him but hesitated halfway across the table, wary, unsure.

He reached for it and clutched tightly at Wade’s fingers.

“I’m so relieved.” 

The words came out tight with emotion, his vision blurring as tears gathered, everything rushing forward all at once. He pulled his sleeve over the fingers of his free hand and wiped quickly across his eyes, laughing shakily as Wade bent to peer into his face.

“You’re… relieved?” Peter could only nod, breath hitching as he tried to stifle the shivery sobs building in his chest.

“Sorry, sorry I… I’m not crying ‘cause…” He stumbled over the words, tongue-tied in the sharpness of his relief. “I’m just… I was afraid…” He laughed again, cheeks wet, and bent to press a shaky kiss to Wade’s covered knuckles. “I’m just so happy to see you.”

He blinked up at Wade, taking in the shocked wonder in his open expression. God, he was so _expressive_ , every little emotion twitching across his face. It was lovely.

“I’m happy to see you, too.” Wade said, more breathless than before. He blinked hard, and Peter watched his throat flex as he swallowed. “Fuck, I… I stood outside and watched you through the window and it was _so hard_ not to come in here and just… I just…” 

He took Peter’s hand in both of his, sliding their palms together, running his fingers up over Peter’s wrists and back down again, feeling each of his fingers. “I just wanted to touch you. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.”

The words stole the breath from Peter’s lungs and it was all he could do to clutch tightly at Wade’s forearm, pressing forward as if he could meld through the table and sink into his skin. “God, that’s all I want.”

Wade caught his eyes, blue stare burning into him, and Peter felt pinned down. He felt peeled open. He felt raw.

“You really don’t care?” Wade asked, whisper-low words almost lost under the clamor of strangers. “You don’t care that I’m… Like this?”

Peter shook his head fiercely, nails digging into Wade’s sleeve and the leather of his gloves. He spoke his answer with breathless fervency.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“Peter…” His rumbled name settled low and hot in his stomach, the worship in Wade’s eyes doing strange things to the rhythm of his racing heart. There was an intensity in his stare, a hunger in it.

And every feeling he’d ever had for Wade, every word they’d shared, every desire, came rushing to the surface of his skin. He felt hot and flushed with it, burning beneath his clothes.

And Wade was _here_. Here in front of him, close enough to touch.

Peter pushed his chair back with a sudden scrape of sound, on his feet and rounding the table before the thoughts could solidify in his head. He never let go of Wade’s hands.

“Come on.” He pulled until Wade stood up, abandoning their untouched drinks on the table in preference of dragging them towards the back of the café. Wade followed unquestioningly, and his tall frame at Peter’s back made the younger man tingly with anticipation and greedy want.

He led them to the restrooms and yanked one of the doors open, huffing out a breath of relief that it wasn’t occupied. Bless Starbucks and their single bathrooms.

“Peter – “ It was half a question, half disbelief at what Peter clearly intended, but it most certainly wasn’t a protest.

He yanked Wade inside and flipped the lock down with a satisfying click, nearly panting by the time he turned to look up at Wade.

“I need you.”

The sound Wade made was nearly a growl, low and hungry. He didn’t hesitate to back Peter up against the door and rest his palms against the wood to lean down, caging him in. “Fuck, Peter… You don’t know what you do to me.”

Peter felt like he was burning from the inside out, molten fire in his veins instead of blood. “Please.” He bit off a groan, setting his hands to skim up Wade’s very _very_ defined sides.

Wade shuddered, pressed in closer, tongue darting out to wet his lips. But he still wasn’t _touching_. He still held himself back, muscles flexing beneath his sweatshirt as he kept himself from moving, grabbing, taking. And that would not do.

Peter tangled one fist in the front of his hoodie and yanked, plastering himself against as much of Wade’s body as he could reach. He arched his back and craned his neck, other hand pressing at the back of Wade’s shoulder until their mouths met in a fumbling kiss. All wet, warm breath and swallowed gasps.

Wade’s lips were softer than they looked and so very hot, each press of them burning like a brand against Peter’s skin. He tasted like copper and mint and Peter found himself chasing the taste, parting their jaws and dipping his tongue between Wade’s teeth.

A low moan vibrated under Wade’s chest and reverberated through Peter’s whole body, making him shiver and clutch himself closer, squirming blindly until his hips pressed flush against one of Wade’s firm thighs.

He whimpered into the kiss, consumed by the slick slide of Wade’s tongue on his. It was fast and it was desperate, both of them burning for it. It was every phone call, every suggestive text, every yearning email and every desire built up over months of suspended need. They hurtled into it with no brakes and no safety belts, and Peter couldn’t have stopped for the end of the world.

He bit down sharp on Wade’s bottom lip, and Wade jerked forward with a grunt. His hands moved in a flash, slipping down to tangle his fingers in Peter’s hair and grip his hip, hard. He pulled, pinpricks of pain across Peter’s scalp causing him to gasp as his head tipped back. Wade deepened the kiss, took control of it, angling Peter’s mouth to fuck into it until soft, needy noises were crawling up his throat with every breath. His knees went weak and he sagged against the door, only remaining upright with Wade’s body pinning him down, a long, hard line of skin and muscle beneath his clothes.

“Wade.” He whined into the wet heat between them and Wade groaned in response, hand sliding down to curl around the back of Peter’s leg and yank up, hitching him higher against his thigh. Peter moaned high and long, banging the back of his head against the door as a delicious roll of pleasure swept through him like a heat wave. “Oh fuck.”

And then it was all wandering hands and rutting friction, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever been so hard in his life. Wade kissed him like he wanted to eat Peter alive, and the rigid line of his cock was pressed tight against Peter’s stomach. His fingers would leave bruises where they dug into the flesh of Peter’s hips and thigh, the line of his ribs. It was rough and it was exquisite, and Peter was fucking falling apart.

“Oh god. Oh god Wade, oh god.” He couldn’t maintain the filthy press of their tongues in his need to gasp for air, and Wade trailed kisses down his jaw and neck instead, scraping teeth over thin skin, nipping at the pound of his pulse. “Fuck you’re so good, Wade, so fucking good – ah!”

Wade shoved his hips forward, a rough moan muffled in the skin of Peter’s shoulder where his shirt had been tugged aside. “You’re so gorgeous Peter, fuck. I saw you through that window and I…” He grunted as Peter’s nails dug into the back of his shoulders, took a moment to trace a slick line down Peter’s collar bone with his tongue. “You’re so much more beautiful than your pictures.” He panted the words into spit-slick skin, hips rocking down hard. “So beautiful it makes me want to die.”

Peter pushed clumsy fingers under Wade’s chin and brought their mouths back together with a high, frantic noise. He lost track after that, everything a blur of electric heat, flaring where Wade grasped at him, where he felt the building pleasure under the rough denim and damp cotton. It felt inevitable. Like they had been hurtling towards this for weeks and weeks.

Wade drew back only long enough to peel a glove off with his teeth, and then he was yanking Peter’s shirt and jacket up and shoving his hand down the back of his pants. Peter gasped as Wade grasped a handful of his ass, proprietary and rough, fingers dipping in between his cheeks. “Oh fuck, Wade, fu- ah, ha, ng - ”

Wade thrust forward insistently, chasing his pleasure with soft gasping grunts pressed into Peter’s hair, and Peter buried his face in Wade’s shoulder as his climax swept over him, sudden and shaking and overwhelming. 

Everything was a wash of dark, deep pleasure, and he was still trembling and blind when Wade went stiff with a short cry. Peter could feel his cock twitching against his stomach, hips pulsing forward short and stuttered, and it nearly brought him back to the edge of arousal all over again. They clutched at each other, weak and panting in the aftermath, pressed so close together that they could feel each other’s heartbeats as they slowly calmed.

They couldn’t stop kissing afterwards. Light, gentle presses of their mouths, too sated and lazy for anything more involved. But each soft brush of lips settled something deep in Peter’s stomach, something indescribable that felt like home. Each time one of them tried to draw apart, to look at each other, to speak, he was pulled back in by a fishhook beneath the sternum, resisting separation.

They chased each other’s mouths, helpless and sweet. Drawn back in over and over. 

They finally settled with foreheads pressed together, lips parted to share each breath. Peter felt content. Like he could live in this moment forever. He’d never felt anything quite like it before, and he said so.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The words were whisper soft, and Wade’s arms only tightened slightly around him. He nudged their noses together and their lips brushed, a caress more than a kiss.

“Me, too.” He murmured, hoarse and warm. “I think I love you more than anything.”

Peter’s eyelashes fluttered. He breathed. He listened to Wade’s heartbeat and waited for his to sync to the same steady rhythm.

“Wade?”

“Mm.” A kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth, and Peter’s lips twisted into a smile.

“I think we should probably leave before they kick us out.”

Wade grinned against his cheek, arms shifting to squeeze Peter closer for a second. “We weren’t exactly quiet, were we?”

“Not exactly.” Peter chuckled breathily, reaching up to trace the line of Wade’s lips with his fingertips.

After a few moments, Wade pulled himself back a few inches with visible effort and a muffled groan. They both peered down between their bodies, taking in their rumpled clothing and the wet, unmistakable stains on the fronts of both their pants. Peter caught Wade’s eye, and then they were both laughing, breathless with unadulterated joy.

They did their best with water and paper towels, never straying more than a foot away from each other even in such an enclosed space. They both still looked like they’d been doing exactly what they’d been doing, but at least they wouldn’t be sticky and miserable until they could change. Just slightly damp.

“Well.” Wade remarked as he tossed a handful of paper in the trashcan, ducking his head shyly. “This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned this going, but I must say I’m relieved.”

Peter smiled, not hesitating to take one of Wade’s hands and tangle their fingers together. “This is pretty much _exactly_ how I imagined this going.”

Wade looked at him with shining eyes, open and appreciative. “Should’ve just trusted you, my genius boy.”

Peter flushed hot and red, prompting Wade to reach up and stroke his cheek with unsteady knuckles, but his grin was untampered. 

“Come on.” He pulled them towards the door before they could start making out again and get stuck in this bathroom forever. Or until someone called the cops on them.

They slipped out of the bathroom as if they could keep from being seen if they were stealthy enough. A girl leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway looked up from her phone to fix them with an unimpressed look, then slipped past and into the restroom that undoubtedly smelled of sex. Peter stifled a giggle and led them straight for the exit, half expecting an employee to try and confront them before they could escape. 

They made it out onto the sidewalk and halfway down the block before stopping to clutch at each other, laughing helplessly. “Oh god. I can’t believe we did that.”

“We?” Wade ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, catching the curls in a light grip at the back of his head and jostling him gently. “I seem to recall that being entirely your idea, Petey-pie.”

Peter’s mouth hurt from smiling. From kissing and smiling. “It was your fault. You didn’t see the way you were looking at me.”

“Oh, is that so?” Wade nodded in faux-seriousness. “I take full responsibility in that case.”

“You better.” Peter hid his grin in the front of Wade’s sweatshirt, breath hitching when strong arms came up to wrap around his back, holding him close.

Wade was quiet for a minute. Then, softly. “Will you come home with me?”

He pulled back to look up at him, and it was the first time he’d ever felt like the phrase ‘heart so full it could burst’ was physically realistic. “Yes.”

Wade’s eyes were blue and earnest. “Will you stay?”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Wade pulled him into a kiss, slow and warm, sealing the promise between them.

Forever was just a word. They didn’t have to say it out loud. They didn’t have to write it down. It was there in the air they shared, sunken into their skin. Making a home in the language of their bodies.


	9. Epilogue

Peter was deliriously happy.

The last month had felt like a dream. No, a fantasy _beyond_ his wildest dreams. So unbelievably wonderful, in fact, that he sometimes entertained the thought that something may have happened to him and he was catatonic somewhere, existing in this ideal world within the confines of his mind. But then he reminded himself that there was no way he could have come up with this shit on his own, because he had honestly never imagined that such intense happiness could be possible.

And it wasn’t just when he was with Wade - which was very often, now. The wild joy touched every part of his life, and he constantly felt like his insides were melty and warm, similar to the Hershey bars his boyfriend ( _boyfriend!_ ) melted in the microwave to pour over graham crackers and marshmallows and make “New York s’mores.” He talked more in class, hummed constantly under his breath while he worked in the lab, and Betty at work had said he looked like he was glowing. He’d surprised them both by admitting, with a shy grin, that he was just happy to be meeting his boyfriend for dinner that night.

Aunt May had noticed immediately. She demanded to know everything about him, and Peter was only too eager to acquiesce. The pride and affection in his voice when he talked about Wade made May’s eyes shine, and she strongly suggested that Peter invite the man over for their next weekly dinner. 

Wade was extremely nervous about such an event (which Peter found fucking adorable, to be frank), so they put it off another week or so until Peter couldn’t avoid Aunt May’s persistent requests any longer. 

The dinner itself went extremely well. Wade wore a button down, which he looked kind of silly (and incredibly hot) in, and was awkwardly formal for the first five minutes. He relaxed quickly after May made a sex joke about zucchini, and the pair of them got along famously for the rest of the evening. Peter couldn’t have imagined a more perfect night.

Except that he felt that way about _every_ night now. Every night he spent with Wade. Every night Wade cooked him dinner and took him to bed in his ridiculously nice apartment. Every night they came together with undiminishing hunger for each other and Wade reduced to Peter to a sobbing mess with just his mouth (and then more than just his mouth). Every night was perfect.

There was just… One thing.

One itsy bitsy, insignificant little thing that was sort of killing his buzz.

The other three to four nights a week that Peter _wasn’t_ sleeping over at Wade’s, wrapped in strong arms and drowning in bliss, he was out until dawn kicking ass and fighting crime.

And feeling guilty as hell.

He should be more upset about taking nights off when he could be out saving lives, but it was the nights he spent webbing criminals that he felt like he might be sick from the untruthfulness of it all.

He hadn’t actually lied to Wade. Not really. The first couple of times he tried to make excuses about early classes or lots of work to catch up on, but he could never actually force the words out. He just choked on them, and ultimately offered no explanation. Miraculously, Wade had never asked. Not once. Peter was sure that if Wade ever pushed for an explanation, _at all_ , he would fold like a messy sweater. But it never happened. Wade seemed content to accept whatever Peter offered, and was quietly, absently supportive during the hours they spent apart.

And it was killing him. Just a little bit.

He’d spent so much of his life actively hiding this part of his life from literally _everyone_ , that he’d never put any thought into how he might tell someone about his alter ego. Now it was all he could think about. 

He wasn’t worried, exactly. He already knew that Wade was partial to Spider-Man, and he couldn’t imagine the man being anything other than proud and supportive, and perhaps worried for Peter’s safety. Which he could manage. Wade knew his way around combat, of course. Peter was sure of it, even if Wade never really spoke about his job, so at least he could understand the mechanics of vigilante heroism. 

It was the actual act of telling him that had Peter somewhat terrified. How does one tell their new boyfriend and certain love of his life that he has super-powers and runs around in a onesie fighting bad guys every night? There were no youtube tutorials for that. He’d checked.

Peter was dwelling on this conundrum while he patrolled one night, shivering on a rooftop as the first snow of the season drifted sedately down from the overcast sky. He kept one ear out for any signs of trouble, letting the background noise of the city filter through his mind while he split his attention between planning his coming out and wondering what Wade was doing right that second and if he knew it was snowing. 

He’d finally settled on wearing his suit under his clothes the next night and just coming right out with it after they ate dinner (Wade was very serious about his dinner), when he heard the soft brush of footsteps climbing up the fire escape to his left.

He wouldn’t have heard the tread of steps at all if it weren’t for the subtle vibrations running through the metal, and the amazing stealth with which this person must be moving sent subtle tingles of almost-warning down the back of Peter’s neck.

He remained in his comfortable crouch, only turning ninety degrees to keep the top of the fire escape in sight. It took a minute for the stealthy climber to reach the roof, and Peter felt his breath stutter a little as a recognizable red and black mask crested the ledge, followed closely by an equally recognizable mercenary wrapped in leather and heavy weaponry.

He hopped fluidly to his feet, preferring to be on equal footing when it came to the unfamiliar, unpredictable man that was currently swinging one leg and then the other over the metal railing to plant his very solid boots on the snow-dusted rooftop. He felt himself tense, though he tried not to let it show, fingers hovering over the web shooters at his wrists just in case. Deadpool had always been (overly) friendly in the past, but Peter had little enough experience with him that there were any number of ways this interaction could play out.

The mercenary dusted his gloves off before raising one hand in greeting, striding towards Peter with an easy familiarity and agile grace.

“Hey there, Spidey! I saw you swing over here and just wanted to come say hi to my tiny twin.” He stopped a few feet away and clapped his hands together, rocking forward onto the toes of his boots and back down again. “How’s it hanging? Get it? Hanging? Like from a web. Because you have spider powers. Which is _so cool_ by the way.”

Peter stared, mouth gaping in open shock beneath his mask. 

“Wade?”

Deadpool froze. He went completely, unnaturally still, head tilted at an inquisitive, almost dangerous angle. A long moment stretched across the space between them.

“Peter?”

Peter reached for his mask with shaky fingers and tore it off, lips parted and eyes bright with surprise and wonder.

Wade unfroze with a startled, choking gasp, reaching immediately for Peter’s shoulders and clutching at them as if he wasn’t sure they would be solid beneath his hands. “Oh my god!”

Peter’s heart was pounding. His chest felt tight. And light. And his head felt kind of floaty and full of cotton balls. “Wade, what the fuck?”

“Oh my god! Peter, you’re Spider-Man!”

“You’re _Deadpool_?”

“Oh my god!” Wade’s leather-covered fingers skimmed up his shoulders and neck, cupped his face and threaded through his hair. “Peter, your hair! It’s so messy!”

Peter swatted his hands away, flushed and flustered. “Wade, stop it!”

“I can’t, baby, I’m… Fuck. My mind is kinda blown here.”

“It’s from the mask, okay? It gets staticky.”

Wade pulled him into a sudden, crushing hug, his low laughter warm and rough against Peter’s ear.

“Jesus fuck honey I did not think I could love you _any_ more than I already did.”

Peter buried his face in Wade’s neck and gripped hard at his back, shivering lightly as he inhaled the scent of leather and gun oil and Wade. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Wade pulled back to look at him. “I’ve been half in love with Spidey for years. This actually makes perfect sense.”

Peter blinked up at him, suddenly breathless with aching affection. “I wanted to tell you. I was going to. Tomorrow, actually. After dinner.”

“And I was gonna tell you! I mean, I wasn’t sure how, ‘cause there’s not exactly a youtube tutorial for this, but I was going to.” He inhaled sharply, going stiff in Peter’s arms. “Wait. You’re not mad, are you?”

He shook his head. “No. Wade.”

“Because I can stop. I… I could do that. I could, um, work at Trader Joe’s maybe.”

“Wade, I’m not mad.”

“Really? So it’s okay that I unalive people?”

“Well, no, it’s…”

Wade flinched back, drawing back from their embrace. “Oh god, I knew it.”

“ _Wade_.” Peter reached up and grabbed the mercenary’s face with both hands. “Listen to me.” 

He worked his fingers under the edge of the mask and started to peel it off, pausing when Wade flinched again, but the older man went still under his grip and he finished pulling it the rest of the way off. Wade’s eyes were shiny and stunningly blue.

“I’m not mad.” Peter told him again. “We’ll talk about it, okay? But not tonight.” He leaned up on his tiptoes to catch Wade’s mouth in a fierce kiss. “I’m too fucking in love with you to care about your job right now.”

Wade made a low, pleased sound, hands coming back up to pull the smaller man against him, and proceeded to claim Peter’s mouth with his capable tongue. Thoroughly.

He broke away after just a few seconds, leaving the hero breathless and hot all over. “Oh my god!”

Peter licked his lips, fingers curled around two thick katana straps and stare lingering on the mouth that had just left his. “What?”

“Now we can move in together!”

He blinked at that, eyes flicking up to catch Wade’s gleeful, excited gaze. “Huh?”

“The only reason I haven’t asked already is ‘cause it’d be a little hard to explain why I was sneaking out the window every other night dressed like a sex toy and carrying heavy fire power. But now we can sneak out the window together!”

It took Peter a moment to process that, because everything was kind of happening all at once, but his burst of laughter was light and full of glee. He felt like he had bubbles in his stomach and they were trying to escape him. “Is this you asking me to move in with you?”

Wade’s grin was bright and beautiful. “Fuck yeah, honey. We can be together all the time, and be super-roomies, and we can build _blanket forts_. It’s not too soon, is it?”

“Yes.” Peter was so happy he was dizzy with it. “I mean, no! Not too soon. Yes, I really really _really_ want to move in with you. Can I?”

“Oh, baby boy.” Wade wore such an open expression of hungry adoration and boundless devotion that Peter couldn’t breathe for a moment. “I hope you never leave.”

And because he couldn’t go another _second_ without Wade’s mouth on his, Peter proceeded to tackle his boyfriend to the ground and break several public indecency laws.

The first of many.


End file.
